


As Seen on TV

by equipoise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I have a lot of headcanon for this that may or may not get incorporated, Masturbation, Past Drug Use, They aren't father and daughter but they play them on tv, Underage Kissing, but no sex til she's of age, hence skipping that tag, tv show au, will add tags as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-08-19 15:19:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8213944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equipoise/pseuds/equipoise
Summary: Former child star Petyr Baelish gets a call from an old friend and previous co-star. Catelyn Tully Stark's daughter, Sansa wants to act. He's sure there's something in it for him if he lends a hand. Eventually, Petyr and Sansa end up cast as father and daughter in a popular TV sitcom but he starts to realize his feelings for the teenage starlet are far from paternal. Luckily, Sansa is not immune to his machinations - or to the budding chemistry between them.





	1. Chapter 1

_ Petyr backed her up against a metal shelf, his mouth at her neck, biting just hard enough without leaving a mark. He wanted to mark her. Claim her as his own. But that could take days to fade and they barely had another 10 minutes before they were both due back on set. One hand fondled her breast, tweaking the nipple through the thin fabric of her bra. The other hand was occupied with that flimsy, scanty skirt that had been taunting him all day.  _

_ Ever since Sansa turned 16, costuming had been raising her hemlines and lowering her necklines bit by bit. Not enough to make the parents complain but plenty of tease for their growing audience of adolescent boys.  _

_ Sansa didn't mind. She'd always liked the attention and she'd been in the industry too long not to know how to play that card. A little too well, Petyr might have said a few months ago. Back when he thought it was all in his own head, just a game she wanted to play. See how far the good girl could push the bad man.  _

_ She'd always known his reputation.  _

_ Sansa cupped his erection through his pants and he licked his lips, pulling back from her neck to meet her half-lidded gaze. His hand slid beneath her panties with a practiced ease. It helped that they were nearly the same height. She only had to tilt her hips - which she did eagerly. His cock pulsed in her grasp as he found her soaking.  _

_ He leaned in to brush her lips with his and she pulled him by the collar to deepen the kiss. He'd have to remember to wipe off the sticky lipgloss before going back to makeup. Part of him wanted to leave it on and let them all stare. Let them all wonder.  _

_ But it was still too much to risk at this point in such a carefully crafted career.  _

_ So, here they were in a goddamned supply closet. Here he was, two knuckles deep in the barely legal girl the rest of the tv-watching world saw every week as his daughter.  _

_ What a fucking delight _ . 

***

Sansa Stark had known from early childhood that she was destined to be famous. It was inevitable. Her mother and father had both been teenage movie stars. They were two out of a small pack of kids their age who did a string of good to mediocre comedies and romances. Cat Tully, Ned and Brandon Stark, Robert Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, and Petyr Baelish. They'd all sort of grown up together onscreen, linked inexorably with a specific point in cinematic history. 

It wasn't the same as winning an Oscar or anything but it was a damn sight more impressive than what Cat and Ned were up to these days. Cat, having retired from showbiz after having her first child, was a stay at home mother. Ned, also out of the limelight, owned and operated an air-conditioning repair company. Since it was LA, he never ran out of work opportunities. Sansa supposed he had been clever to invest his money in such a business but that didn't make it any less boring. 

By the time Sansa was 8, she started campaigning for Cat to take her to open auditions. The answer was always a resounding No. Her determination only grew with the frustration. Her little sister, Arya, suggested just leaving school and going by herself but Sansa was not about to take a bus through Hollywood all alone. She was ambitious, not stupid. 

Biding her time, Sansa began to pick up extra housework, time and again proving that she could be responsible. Her mother, somehow seeing through the ruse, offered a compromise of theatre camp over the summer. Sansa agreed. 

Two summers later, Sansa was being picked as the lead in nearly every school play. A talent scout even gave her his business card but Cat scowled and threw it away. 

“You have to know who to trust, Sansa. A lot of people will lie to get what they want from you,” Cat explained, looking weary and older than her years as she served little Rickon his mac and cheese. 

Sansa's delicate brow furrowed. “What do they want?”

Cat hesitated, a flicker of fear running across her face before she tucked it away behind a gentle smile. “We'll talk about that when you're older, alright? For now, just let me keep you safe?”

Sansa sighed. She couldn't really argue with that, fundamentally unfair as it somehow felt. “Well if you won't let me work with strangers, don't you know people? I know it's been forever since you did any acting but it's not like everyone's just died off or retired. What about all your old friends?”

Catelyn’s mouth twisted. “You don't always make very many friends in the industry, sweetheart.” She looked down at her hands, fiddling with the simple wedding band. “Especially not in those days.”

“I'll never get discovered in school or community theatre,” Sansa pouted. “It's my only dream and it'll never happen that way.”

“There is so much more to life than being on a movie screen….” Cat chided. 

Sansa met her mother’s gaze squarely, eyes pleading. “But how can I know that until I've had the chance? At least you got to do it for real. Not just playing on cardboard sets with the other kids.” 

Cat frowned. “Alright. Let me...,” she sighed, “let me see what I can do. I… might be able to get ahold of someone.”

Sansa felt herself light up, heart beating fast. “Mommy you're the absolute best! Who is it? Director? Casting agent?”

“He's… he's an old friend. An actor but I think he's branched out into some producing. He was always good at… getting to know the right people.” 

Sansa was primed to ask more but just then Rickon decided to throw his remaining noodles to the floor. They busied themselves with cleaning and Sansa's questions were temporarily forgotten. 

***

Catelyn fucking Stark called him out of the blue one day. Over a decade since he'd heard her voice on a phone. Longer still since he'd seen her in person. 

Petyr's last memory was of her teary-eyed face above him as he lay in a hospital bed, bleeding profusely from a gash inflicted by her then-boyfriend. A pen knife Brandon carried just to look tough. So Petyr had thought. Turned out that, with a little cocaine induced fury, the penknife was no longer just for show. 

Alright so maybe Petyr had been a little too high, himself. And drunk. And slightly stoned, if only from contact with the wall of smoke that hovered around Ned and Robert almost every night. Maybe it had been foolish and impetuous to declare his love for Catelyn and challenge her intended to a fight. 

He'd been so young. The baby of the group by nearly three years. Catelyn was the first girl he'd ever kissed, both onscreen and off. From the moment they met on the set of what would become their first blockbuster, Petyr had been hopelessly infatuated. Cat was, to him, the epitome of perfection. Everything a young woman ought to be. She was beautiful, statuesque, and so poised. He flubbed the first 4 takes just to keep kissing her. Cat figured it out and, rather than getting angry, she'd called him sweet. 

No one had ever called him sweet. 

He'd been her pet from that moment on. She took him to parties and networking events where he learned fast and became an easy favorite. He lived in a room in her beautiful beach house. They were cast in three more movies together almost consecutively and even rumored to be dating. Petyr's fame grew but he was barely paying attention to that as long as he could be close to Cat. 

Then her manager (who was also her father) set her up with Brandon Stark, the older of the two brawny brothers who were quickly becoming Hollywood heartthrobs. They hit it off and became a fixture around the beach house. Ned brought along his best friend Robert - a very limited, uninspiring actor with chiseled good looks and an insatiable appetite for all manner of vices. Petyr tolerated the three lunkheads so long as they made his Cat happy. She seemed to enjoy their insipid conversation and vulgar humor. The next few years were a whirlwind of pills, powders, and parties. 

At some point, Robert hooked model/actress Cersei into the mix, though she never looked very happy to be there. They made an attractive couple on magazine covers and, in the end, that was all that mattered. 

Soon, however, it all began to fall apart around them. Robert got fired from two different pictures for being too stoned to perform. Cersei, already his fiancée by then, got pregnant and decided to keep it. They were married in Vegas, telling the media it had been a romantic escapade rather than a step ahead of the shotgun. The night Petyr declared his love for Cat and begged her to run away with him, it was already the beginning of the end. 

Cat had hovered over him as he lay in that bed, half delirious with pain. He'd begged her once more, pointed out the kind of man she was with. He'd grasped for her hand. 

“Stay,” he'd pleaded, “don't go back to him. Just stay with me.”

She'd had the audacity to cry as she shook her head. “I'm sorry. I can't.”

She'd disappeared from the hospital and from his life. Petyr wanted to press charges against Brandon but there were witnesses who would testify that he'd struck the first blow. He'd been too drunk to remember, so he was forced to take their word. A trial would only have made him look bad in the press. 

Brandon Stark died a few months later in a car accident. Driving under the influence. Luckily, no one else was hurt. It almost felt a little bit like justice, until the day Petyr saw the ring on Catelyn Stark’s finger on the cover of a well known magazine. Her other hand was held by the hulking Ned Stark. Both had broad smiles and light in their eyes. The byline explained how close they'd grown, bonded by the tragedy of losing Brandon. 

Petyr destroyed a rather expensive set of plates and two picture frames that day. 

Twelve years later, Catelyn Tully - no, Stark - was asking him a favor for her daughter. The half Stark spawn wanted to be on TV. Did he know any reliable casting agents? Anyone she could trust? 

He wanted to sneer and spit back her own words at her.  _ I'm sorry. I can't. _ But something gave him pause. There was a certain plaintive tone he'd come to recognize over time. A whiff of desperation that, accompanied by a pretty young face and nubile body often meant money in his pocket from the side business of which he was a silent partner.

Catelyn must have been desperate, if she'd phone him. Of course, she didn't know about his side business. And her daughter was far too young for that, anyway. 

He found himself agreeing to meet for coffee. 


	2. Feels like Fate

Mom had gone to meet her old friend Petyr for coffee and came back with a strange expression.

“He said he'll see what he can do.”

About a week later, 10 year old Sansa found herself in a room with a poised, elegant older woman and a sharply dressed man whose easy smile didn't quite meet his eyes. She sat on a plastic chair across from them and they sat behind a small table with a video camera on a tripod.

“Well,” the older woman began, her gaze sharp and intense, “Petyr tells me you’ve quite the heritage, young lady.”

Sansa frowned, feeling naked before both pairs of strange eyes. Her mother had been asked politely to stay in the brightly colored waiting room, as she’d had to bring along Rickon. The others were at after school activities and there was no one to watch him. At the time, Sansa had flounced past, insisting she was fine on her own. Sadly, her bravado had been fleeting.

“Sorry?” she asked, politely, stalling for time to adjust to the scrutiny.

The woman’s face softened. “Your parents, child. Both got their start not much older than you are now. Tell me,” she leaned forward, placing one hand over the other on the table, “are you here for them? Is this what Mommy and Daddy wanted you to do?”

Sansa shook her head vehemently. “Oh no. This was all my idea. Mom… my mother didn’t think I was serious about it but I’ve proved her wrong. I want to be an actress. For me, not for anyone else.” She took a deep breath, feeling stronger as the air filled her lungs and slowly released. “This is my dream, Mrs. Tyrell, and I’m willing to work very, very hard to make it come true.”

The woman and man exchanged looks. The man looked like he might laugh and Sansa’s teeth sunk into her tongue, not hard enough to hurt but enough to keep it still. She didn’t take well to being laughed at. But she had to be on her very best behavior. Olenna Tyrell was one of the best casting agents in the business. If Sansa impressed her, she’d be well on her way.

“Call me Olenna, dear. I hear you’ve prepared a scene?”I 

Sansa’s joints turned to jelly, relieved that she seemed to have already passed some kind of test. “I have, Mrs., um, Olenna.” 

“Good. We’ll run that together. Once for practice and once with the camera on, alright? Then, I’m going to give you another scene to run with Petyr.” Olenna indicated the man at the her side.

Sansa’s eyes went wide. How had she not realized that was him? He looked very different than in the movies he’d done with her mother. Smaller than she’d thought he’d be and older, of course. His hair was shorter and he had more hair on his face. Most of the shows he was on these days weren’t the kind her parents let her watch. Too much cussing and violence. Arya would always try to sneak downstairs at night to catch a glimpse. Sansa had no interest in such things. Now she wished she’d snuck down with Arya, just so she hadn’t been caught so unaware. 

“Is that alright, Sansa?” Petyr asked gently, still looking amused.

She swallowed hard, straightening her spine. “Yes, thank you for this opportunity.” Mother had insisted she say those words, exactly. They’d gone over it twice on the drive. _If nothing else - be gracious_.

“Excellent.”

The rehearsed scene flowed easily and Sansa lost herself in the part of the de-throned princess searching for her father.  Reading the other scene with Petyr was easier than she expected. They gave her a little time to look it over and ran the lines twice before turning the camera back on. He put quite a lot into the performance, despite being still behind the camera. She felt bolstered by his efforts.

It was over before she even knew it. In all, she felt she gave a very good performance.

Petyr stood up from behind the table and crossed to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Very well done, sweetling. Very well done. Come on, I’ll get you back to your Mom, yeah?” 

Sansa thanked Olenna again and let him lead her out.

“A word before you go, Petyr?” Olenna’s commanding tone stopped them in their tracks.

Sansa felt Petyr stiffen slightly, his hand flexing where it still gripped her shoulder. He smiled that hollow smile down at her.

“Just wait right outside the door for me. Don’t wander off. It’s a bit of a labyrinth in here. Be right out.” He ushered her out the door and pulled it closed.

The catch didn’t quite click, though, and standing close, Sansa could hear them speaking on the other side.

“Well?” Petyr asked, shifting from the gentle voice he’d used with her to something more strident.

“She’s raw. Untrained. But not without some promise. Pretty face, good name. Everyone loves a Hollywood family. I can get her some work but she’ll need acting classes. Diction and improv, too.” Olenna was brisk, unemotional, as though they were discussing the weather rather than Sansa’s entire future. Sansa bristled slightly but decided to hang her hopes on the fact Olenna thought she at least had promise. It was better than nothing.

Olenna continued, “But I want to know why. She’s not yours; that’s plain as the nose on her face. What’s in it for you?”

Petyr’s voice was lower, smooth as silk. “Don’t know what you mean, dear. Just doing a favor for an old friend.”

Olenna gave an unladylike snort. “Bullshit. You don’t do favors. I’ve known you long enough to know that.” A pause. “You and Cat scratching each other’s backs again, these days?”

Petyr made a dismissive noise. “Never took you as one for idle gossip.” Olenna huffed and Petyr added, “a gentleman never tells.” 

“There hasn’t been a gentleman in this business since the 50’s”

“I suppose you would know…” Petyr replied.  

Olenna gave a melodramatic sigh. “Cheap shot. How boring. Go on and get the girl to her mother. I’ll add her to my roster." 

“Many thanks, Olenna.”

“Oh, I know you’ll make it worth my while.” Olenna said.

“Always do.” With that, Petyr was back on the other side of the door. Sansa had managed to scramble back to avoid collision but he looked down at her with an odd expression. “How much of that did you hear?”

She feigned confusion. “Of what?”

He chuckled. “Yes, I suppose we will need to get you some classes, won’t we?”

Sansa wanted to be angry with him but her head was already full of possibilities. She was going to be a real actress. On tv and in movies. She was going to be featured in magazines and get to fly in private planes with other stars. She'd be interviewed on red carpets and get a star on the Walk of Fame. It was almost too beautiful to be real. But it would be, if she just kept working. She’d made a solid promise to her parents not to let her grades slip or else they’d pull the plug on the whole idea. Luckily, she’d always been a good student.

Petyr led her back to the waiting room, where Cat was sitting with Rickon, playing on the floor with a small toy truck. The two adults barely spoke but Sansa was bursting with the good news. She didn’t notice when Petyr left, babbling as she was to her mother the whole way back to the car.

That was the last she saw of Petyr Baelish for the next 4 years. She took the classes Oleanna arranged for her, still keeping up with her schoolwork. The parts she was able to land got juicer. She signed on with a manager. Her parents set up a college fund and deposited most of her pay into that, leaving her a little for shopping with her friends. Shortly after her 13th birthday, she got a speaking part in a made for TV Disney movie. Petyr sent a dozen pink roses with a card congratulating her. When her father saw Petyr’s name on the card, he shook his head and threw them out. Sansa stormed off to her room in a fit but allowed herself to be coaxed back down for her favorite dessert.

Later that night, she heard her parents fighting. It was rare that they fought but not totally unheard of. Dad never really warmed to the idea of Sansa as an actress. He kept trying to have these very serious talks with her about things like drugs and boys. Sansa usually waited until he'd awkwardly stumbled onto a specific subject then reminded him, a little condescendingly, that she wasn't stupid and she'd actually been in some of those “special episodes” on various shows.

She wasn't interested in drugs or peer pressure. She just wanted that star on Hollywood Blvd. It would be hers, someday. She had to keep believing that.

A year later, when Petyr showed up at their door, it almost felt like fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't often break the fourth wall with author notes but I thought I should mention a few things: I do live in LA and know a few people in Hollywood (I actually dated a former child star a few years ago) but my knowledge of the industry is not complete or probably even up to date. So, if it seems like I am taking some liberties or glossing over some things, I am. I'm more interested in the interpersonal story than the nitty gritty of the business. However, if there are some glaring errors, I welcome private feedback/discussion (my tumblr is [here](http://shippingcreepystyle.tumblr.com)). I can and have made changes to fic based on the observations of my readers. Con crit is important to me. Just please be kind, as I am fragile ;-)


	3. The Part

“Look, do you want the part or don't you?” Cersei flipped one lock of golden blonde hair over her shoulder and picked up her wine glass. She swirled it with a flick of her wrist, looking bored as ever.

Petyr cocked his head, contemplating her from across the table. “Why would I want a lead in a show that is... ‘doomed to fail’ I believe were your exact words? I'm already in first for that new crime drama.”

“Because the money's good and it's not like another failed pilot will hurt your reputation any.” The tall blonde fixed him with an icy gaze. “The crime drama may get shelved this season anyway. Two other networks have one just like it.”

Petyr feigned a frown. He was aware that the crime drama was most likely no-go. A few well-placed ‘friends’ had tipped him off. But he'd been hoping to use it as a bargaining chip. It was unusual for Cersei to be so up to date on these things.

She sniffed, downing the contents of her glass with one hand and gesturing toward the waiter with the other. The handsome young man hurried to her side. “One more of the same and the check, please.”

The man smiled charmingly. “Would you like to see the dessert menu, by any chance?”

Cersei glared up at him. “Do I look like I eat dessert?”

The man had the grace to look chastened as he took the empty glass with a murmur of apology.

Petyr looked down to hide his smirk. Poor boy would be lucky if she left a dollar tip. He cleared his throat, picking up his own (slowly nursed) mint julep and taking a sip. “How much?”

Cersei gave him a smug look as she pulled a piece of folded paper from her purse and slid it to him.

He raised an eyebrow. “How old fashioned. You could have just texted me, you know.” He glanced at the sum she'd printed neatly in the center. It was… considerable for a few days’ work. He took a breath, keeping his face purposely neutral. Money was never really the problem, of course. Cersei wouldn't have come here with just a sum to offer. She knew him better than that.

“Well?” she pressed.

Petyr sipped his drink again, relishing the chance to let her dangle. Cersei Baratheon was not a woman accustomed to being kept waiting. It was a rare pleasure to make her sweat.

“It's acceptable. Plus a producer credit and we'll have to talk residuals on the off-chance it does get picked up,” he nonchalantly returned the slip of paper.

Cersei’s mouth went tight and flat. “It won't. It's just some pet project of Tyrion’s that he somehow convinced Father to let him make.” 

Petyr shrugged. “I want it all covered in the contract or no deal.”

“There are plenty of other actors I could ask…”

“With a big enough name and at this short notice? Who would let you pull their strings?” He scoffed elegantly, flicking imaginary lint from the shoulder of his silk button down.

The waiter reappeared with another glass of wine and slid the check onto the table. “Whenever you're ready.”

Petyr gave the man a short nod but Cersei's eyes never left Petyr's face.

“Fine. You get what you want in the contract. I get to look like I did what Daddy asked and we all get to forget this little experiment as fast as possible.”

To his surprise, Cersei paid the entire bill. Probably the company expense account.

Downing her fifth glass, she rose quickly. “Now I just need some little brat to play the daughter and we're all set to shoot.”

Petyr pursed his lips. “How old?”

Cersei shrugged, pulling very large Dior sunglasses out of her bag to settle them on her nose. “12? 13? Puberty age, I guess. Not too obviously developed. There's a scene about training bras.” Her lips pulled back in a sneer. “Figures my pervert brother would be writing about a teenage girl’s bras, doesn't it?”

Petyr chuckled as a face immediately surfaced in his mind. Yes, she'd be about the right age, now. 14 but able to play younger. Her acting had improved with time and coaching. It wouldn't matter that the show never took off, she'd be excited just to get the part. And he'd look good in front of Cat for bringing it to her.

“I may have just the right actress for you.”

***

It took some convincing from both Cat and Sansa, herself, but eventually Ned relented. Petyr sat on their sofa, observing the squalor left behind by a house with four young children living in it. He'd been informed that the eldest was away at college. Robb Stark. The living breathing end of Catelyn Tully’s promising career.

Petyr had been rather glad not to have to look that one in the face. Bad enough how the younger girl was giving him perpetual stink eye, punching one fist pointedly (and a little overdramatically) into the baseball glove she wore on her other hand. The younger boys were alright, if one could get past the noise and the stench of unwashed hair and crusted on peanut butter.

As he politely observed Catelyn with her brood, he realized that the bloom was off the rose, in some ways. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that he'd still have her, should she come to his door begging to escape this dreary existence. Yet there was something different now, a dullness to her eyes, a heaviness to her movements. It didn't suit her. Not the woman she'd once been, vibrant and full of excitement.

Sansa, however, seemed to have inherited that spark quite nicely. All of her mother's good looks and only a touch of her father's plodding, philistine nature. At a tender 14, she already promised to be a great beauty. TV audiences would love a delicate featured face like hers, easily projecting either innocence or budding sensuality as they wished. It was almost a shame the show wasn't meant to get picked up. She could really shine, given the right vehicle.

As Sansa threw herself bodily at him for a celebratory hug, he had the fleeting thought that perhaps it was best he only worked with her a short time. She felt far too good in his arms for a girl of her age.

That passed quickly though and she was no more to him than Cat’s daughter, once more.

They shot for three days on what was clearly a shoestring budget. Tyrion oversaw every aspect, looking half-crazed, like he hadn't slept in days. He probably hadn't.

The script was surprisingly entertaining. Far more light-hearted than anyone would have expected from the sarcastic cynic who wrote it. Petyr had gone in expecting gallows humor or, worse, humiliation. In fact, the scenes were charming and well-paced. It was just racy enough to hold the attention of tweens but with a warm hearted center. The focal point was the 10 year old boy, a towheaded scamp with a penchant for pranking his pretty older sister. But the other cast members were heavily featured.

Sansa was perfect as Alayne the older sister, eye-rolling her long-suffering father and even getting a laugh from the crew during rehearsal. She was polite and took direction well, with a minimum of fuss. The lead boy (Tommen Baratheon, of course) was not so pleasant, playing iPhone games at inopportune moments and leaving set several times to call his agent. The older brother, played, as it turned out, by Sansa's cousin Jon, needed a shower and lesson in social cues but turned out an earnest performance as his irresponsible father’s overactive conscience.

As he'd promised Cersei, Petyr phoned it in from the start, walking the thin line of camp. Tyrion could tell he wasn't giving it his all but said nothing. It was his name they needed anyway, not his talent. Still, there were a few takes where Petyr felt compelled to make a little more effort, if only to avoid being outshone by his teenage costars.  

All in all, it went well. Certainly better than it seemed anyone had expected.

A few weeks later, Tyrion texted him.

_Where the Heart Is got picked up. Test audience fucking loved it. Ate it up. Knew they would. Dad saw he'd make a fortune in the upfront. Full season order. They even liked you as the father. Go figure. Still in?_

Petyr gaped at his phone before answering:

_Cersei okay with all this? I drafted the contract with her._

Tyrion replied almost immediately _:_

_Cersei can stick it up her ass. It's my baby and I'm making it happen._

Petyr laughed despite himself, feeling oddly giddy. Steady work was nothing to scoff at. He hadn't had a decent show in some time. Steady work with Sansa Stark - keeping him very much on Cat’s radar and in her life - was an added bonus. He wasn't a father, but apparently he could play a good one on TV.

Maybe Cat would finally see what they could have had together, if Sansa had been his. If nothing else, it would kill Ned to see Petyr getting close with his eldest daughter. Mentoring her first hand from his wealth of knowledge about the business, winning her over. Even if they only got a single season together, it was enough time to influence a young, impressionable girl.

He smiled and typed back:

_I'm in._


	4. Early Days

It was almost surreal, sitting with her agent and her mother as they negotiated the full contract. The words whizzed past Sansa's burning ears without making much in the way of sense. She was trying to pay attention, trying to learn. But it was all she could do just to keep from dancing around the room.

Her first pilot and it had not only gotten picked up but they were getting a full season! Not a half season, like Jeyne’s last show that had gotten canceled after the first six episodes, sending Jeyne on that crazy bender that ended their friendship. Poor Jeyne, she really ought to call her… but with this good news, it might seem like bragging.

A full season. 22 episodes with her name on them. Sansa wanted to climb to the nearest rooftop and let out the most unladylike noises she’d ever made.

Instead, she allowed herself only a broad smile as she crossed her long legs demurely and nodded along with her agent’s suggestions.

It was all really happening.

She barely slept for a week, eventually forcing herself to drink chamomile to try and calm down in the evening. Even that barely helped but she managed to get a little rest.

Two days before shooting began, she got a facial and a full body massage, courtesy of the studio - a little welcome gift. It felt nice but still did little to relax her.

She walked onto the set with a tummy full of butterflies (and little else as she’d barely been able to keep down her egg white omelette), running lines in her head. Her mother had wanted to stay, tour the set, meet her tutor, and all that. But Sansa had told her there wasn’t time for that today. That wasn’t entirely true, her call was early enough that she could have shown Mom around a bit, but she felt very strongly about walking in by herself. An independent young woman, mature, poised, and ready to work.

A PA showed her to her temporary trailer where the makeup artist had already begun to set up.

Sansa’s makeup artist was a slender woman with dark, mischievous eyes and a lilting accent. She didn’t look much older than Sansa, herself.

“You don’t drink enough water,” the woman observed by way of greeting, tilting her head to one side.

Sansa wrinkled her nose, put off by the abrupt introduction. “Sorry?”

The makeup artist shook her head, pursing her lips. “Good complexion but… what SPF you use?”

Sansa shrugged. “15, I think. I mean, I don’t wanna burn but I don’t wanna look like a ghost, either. My last costar told me I should go to the tanning salon to get that golden glow or whatever but I get so bored lying in that bed…”

The young woman snorted and rolled her eyes. “Tan skin is easy to create. Skin cancer and wrinkles? Much less attractive than pale, yes?” Without waiting for a reply, the young woman guided Sansa to the chair and began applying product to her face. “You’re too pretty not to take good care of yourself. Fuck these Hollywood bitches with their tanning beds. You drink more water and use higher SPF, it’s my job to make you glow, yes?”

Sansa started to nod but the woman adjusted her head.

“No moving ‘til I’m finished.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“No ‘ma’ams’ here. I don’t do ‘ma’ams’ or ‘Miss’. Save it for the snooty blonde boss. It’s just Shae.”

Shae extended a hand and Sansa shook it, surprised to find it heavily calloused.

“Sansa,” Sansa replied, flinching as she realized the redundancy. Her name, along with her character’s name, was printed clearly on a piece of paper taped to the back of the chair.

Shae grinned, her eyes sparkling. “Oh good, I put moisturizer on the right face. Okay, Sansa. Time to make you Alayne.” She flourished her hands as though she were about to do a magic trick then grabbed a palate of foundation and a brush.

Shae worked quickly and silently, applying liquids and powders with brushes of various sizes. She tilted Sansa’s head and murmured the occasional instruction to open or close her eyes, look at the ceiling or look at her lap.

Sansa held still, obeying the commands given and occasionally sipping her Starbucks venti black tea through a straw, careful not to get it on her teeth. Her makeup rarely took very long as Sansa was usually cast to play young. They always went natural. She was surprised when Shae added a couple extra lashes.

“Make your eyes pop,” Shae made another elegant hand gesture. “Not that they need help.” She winked.

Sansa was flattered despite her earlier misgivings about the woman. She went back to running lines in her head as Shae moved around her to finish her hair.

“All done!” Shae announced a little while later. She stepped aside, allowing Sansa to glance at herself in the mirror over the dresser.

She inhaled through her pink-painted mouth. Her eyes were softly defined in a way that looked almost effortless, her cheeks flushed like she’d had a particularly pleasant surprise. Her hair shone brightly and fell in gentle waves. She turned her head side to side. In her peripheral, she noted Shae packing up her makeup case.

“I look…”

“You look beautiful,” Shae supplied, matter of factly, closing the case with a snap. “Easy job with good raw material.” She tilted her head again, examining Sansa’s reflection with her. The curve of her smile dropped just a fraction, her gaze growing distant. “I can see why he cast you.”

Before Sansa could ask exactly which “he” Shae meant, there was a tap at the trailer door. She and Shae exchanged looks and the older girl shrugged.

“Come in?”

The door swung open to reveal Petyr Baelish, brandishing a small bouquet of pink and purple flowers in a clear glass vase.

His eyes went straight to Sansa’s face and he exhaled audibly. It made Sansa want to squirm in her seat, the way he looked at her. Fixed and intent, as though he was trying to tell her a secret she couldn’t quite understand.

He began, “Well, don’t you look…”

Shae cleared her throat, slender hands coming to her hips. “You don’t belong in here.”

His gaze switched to her with a flicker of irritation. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Petyr Baelish. I play Alayne’s father. You are?” He came further into the trailer, extending the hand not holding the flowers.

Shae glanced at his empty hand and turned back to Sansa’s hair, fussing with a few curling tendrils. “I know who you are. I watch cable shows. No reason for you to be in a young girl’s trailer. She’ll be on set soon.”

Petyr’s mouth thinned and Sansa turned in her chair, raising a placating hand to the other woman’s arm. “It’s alright, Shae. Really. Petyr’s a friend.” At the eyebrow Shae raised, Sansa amended, “a friend of the family. He’s known my parents for years.”

The three of them lingered in a moment of increasingly uncomfortable silence before Sansa nodded to Shae’s closed makeup case. “Thank you for the lovely work.” It was a clear dismissal, albeit a polite one.

Shae’s mouth pursed, her eyes cutting to Petyr. “She’s needed in wardrobe in 5.”

Petyr gave her that smile that didn’t touch his eyes and nodded. “I'll get her there.”

As Shae packed the last of her things and left, Petyr stepped around her, handing Sansa the vase of flowers, their fingers brushing as she took them. “Just a little something to brighten the trailer. They often start out so… drab…”

Sansa smiled her appreciation as she took him in.

His hair had been cut short and smoothed back, parted on one side, the hint of gray at his temples more prominently displayed this way. His facial hair had been shaven off save a small patch below his lower lip and a mustache. He was dressed in a short sleeved polo shirt tucked into pleated front khakis that were belted high on his hips.

Sansa pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. He looked like a dork.

He read her amusement almost immediately and his mouth quirked. “I know, I know. There’s a mirror in my trailer, too.”

She grinned, setting the vase down on her dressing table. “I’m sure the SUV-driving soccer moms of the world will swoon.”

Petyr rolled his eyes. “Sadly, my target demo, these days.” He offered her an arm as she rose from the chair and she took it, tickled by the old fashioned gallantry. As he walked her over to wardrobe, he pointed out a few of the people on set he knew, telling her that she could turn to any of them, should she need anything.

They passed her cousin Jon, but he had his head down and big noise-canceling headphones on, so he didn’t seem to notice them.

It was a little weird that he’d ended up on the same show - playing her (Alayne's) older brother, no less. She’d barely been aware he was acting. More of a musician, really, with a rasping voice and soulful sound. Not Top 40 yet, but he was cute enough that she’d seen him in a few teen magazines. He'd been decent at the pilot, a little reluctant to take direction but a solid performer. She wondered if working together meant they would become friends. Probably not. 

She and Jon had never been close. Apparently, her aunt Lyanna had been trying to make it as a singer but gave it all up to run off with some hotshot director. Ned had been furious with her because she’d been dating his friend Robert at the time and there was some kind of complicated history they had with the director. They never reconciled and Sansa only found out she’d had an Aunt Lyanna upon the woman’s death.

Lyanna’s son, Jon, had stayed with them for a few months after losing his mom. Then some other uncle from up north, somewhere outside of Oakland, had come to claim him. Ned had wanted him to stay but Catelyn, with her third child on the way, had insisted she already had her hands full. It would be odd playing happy family with actual estranged family.

The rest of her first day on set passed by almost alarmingly fast and she was walking back to her trailer before she knew it, ready to change and go home. Mom texted that she’d be waiting on the lot. Beside her, Petyr glanced down at her phone.

“Tell her I said hi, yeah?”

“Huh?”

He ducked his head and smiled. “Your mom. Tell her I said hi.”

She jerked her thumb toward the lot. “You could walk out and say it, yourself.”

He shook his head with a crooked half-smile. “Gotta get back. One more scene left for me and maybe a couple pickups.” At her door, they halted. Turning to face her, he gripped her upper arm. “But you can also tell her I said you were magnificent, today.”

Sansa beamed, warmth spreading through her at the praise. “I was?”

“Absolutely. Not that I ever expected any less.”

Her face felt hot and her chest tight. “Thank you,” she breathed.

Petyr studied her face a moment longer before leaning in just long enough to brush his lips to her cheek. In her ear he whispered, “You’re gonna be a star. I can feel it.”

A pleasant shiver ran down her spine and she inhaled a shuddering breath, something fluttering almost uncomfortably low in her belly that didn’t feel anything like those butterflies from earlier.

He straightened, grinning. “Get some rest, sweetling. I’ll see you tomorrow.”


	5. The swimsuit

They'd put her in a swimsuit this episode. 

Just a simple one piece, built more for utility than titillation. Though titillate it most certainly did. And not just him, Petyr realized, with a sour twist in his stomach. More than a few crew members were watching his teenage protege swan about wearing just a hoodie over the tight, high cut fabric. 

Sansa nearly rivaled him in height now, and in that swimsuit, it was easy to see why. Legs for miles. Legs for days. And a slender figure that was just beginning to fill out in all the most delightful ways. He'd had to tear his eyes away immediately, the moment he saw her. Not everyone on set had such good manners, though. 

Petyr made careful note of which necks he might need to have throttled. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Although there was a particularly enthusiastic key grip that had his fingers itching to deliver more than a tidy pink slip. 

He'd known she was going to grow up beautiful the moment he met her. Before he even met her, he'd have wagered on her beauty - seeing as how she clearly favored her mother in looks. There was a touch of Ned's sister, as well. He vaguely remembered the dark-haired singer as being surprisingly lovely for a Stark. Sansa had been blessed with the best of genetics from both sides. 

He'd known that, going into this show with her. But being faced with the reality of Sansa’s beauty, with how it seemed to blossom a bit more each day… somehow he never felt quite prepared for it. Or for the growing confidence she was able to portray, despite living under the magnifying glass of media. It was half pretense and half the easy self absorption of youth. He could begrudge her neither but found both almost equally distracting. 

Early on he'd advised her not to Google her own name. She hadn't listened, of course, and there’d been a few tear-filled bouts of self recrimination over everything from her freckles (which he secretly found entirely too endearing) to her “baby-fat.” Eventually, however, the heady euphoria of the show's success had eclipsed even the most potent moments of doubt. Going into season two, Sansa was riding high on a Teen Choice nomination and some very flattering photoshoots. 

The whole cast was feeling pretty good, truth be told. Even Jon had cracked a smile at the Golden Globes. They hadn't won anything yet but the buzz was in the air and Tyrion’s allotted budget had increased exponentially. Here they were, a few episodes into season two and that energy had yet to fade. 

Spotting Petyr on the edge of the set, Sansa skipped happily over. Totally oblivious to the turmoil her state of undress was causing him. 

He swallowed and smiled at her. “You seem to have forgotten pants,” he noted, casually. 

Sansa’s nose wrinkled. “I've got to let the makeup set.” Her expression shifted to one of concern. “Do I look tacky?”

He allowed himself a nonchalant sweeping gaze over her entire form, forcing himself not to linger. It was… more difficult than he anticipated and he found himself studying a lighting fixture for a second before replying. “Tacky is not the word that comes to mind, no. But why didn't you get the spray tan earlier this week? Seems a bit last minute...” 

She blinked at him and there was a flicker of something in her eyes that sent a sliver of discomfort through his cool facade. As though she could tell the amount of self control it was taking him not to stare. 

But then it was gone and that sweet, guileless smile split her face, a hint of sheepishness making it all the more irresistible. 

“No, I did the tan part already but, um, I told Shae I was feeling kind of… I mean it's a lot of leg to show, you know? So, she, um,” the faint smattering of a blush spread across her cheeks, “she did a little contouring.” Without warning, Sansa pivoted, her back arching slightly as she kicked up one heel behind her and pointed to her lower leg. “I've got calf muscles, now. See?”

I'm relatively certain you already did.” Petyr chuckled, allowing himself a perfunctory glance. He could just see the curves of her ass peeking out below her hoodie. He averted his eyes to her face as quickly as he could without looking suspicious. 

Sansa huffed an exhalation, turning back to face him. “Hardee har har, Mr. Comedian. They just look so much more toned like this, you know?” She looked at her legs again, with an air of satisfaction. 

“Well, if you're angling for that Teen People cover, I'm sure it can't hurt.” Petyr teased. 

She giggled. “It's not just vanity, I swear. I mean, Alayne is supposed to be on the swim team, so she'd probably be more defined, right? I've been doing yoga and stuff but I'm not, like, swimmer-fit. Not yet anyway.”

Petyr found himself pleasantly surprised that she'd put so much thought into the aesthetic choice. He couldn't keep back a touch of pride from his voice. “That was a clever thought, Sansa.”

She preened slightly, flushed with the praise. “I know. I'm cleverer than most people around here think.”

He caught her eye and held it. “Oh, I never had any doubt of that.”

Before she could reply, she was being called back to place by Tyrion, who was directing again, this week.  It may have been Petyr’s imagination- or wishful thinking- but he swore her cheeks were a shade pinker just before she walked over toward the pool. 

Partly as a distraction, he scanned the room for more potential lay-offs, only to find Shae looking rather intently in his direction. He raised an eyebrow at her. Her lips pursed but she turned her head. 

He knew she wouldn't look away from Tyrion for too long. Especially not when the small man was working with a girl. Even a 15 year old to whom Tyrion had never been anything but polite. 

Did the two of them really still think they were being subtle? To her credit, Shae had apparently managed to hold Tyrion’s interest through a whole season and a half, so far. There must be something about her besides leg makeup and eyebrow waxing. Not that Petyr could see it. 

Shae didn't like Petyr and the feeling was quite mutual. She'd made a few insinuations regarding his behavior toward Sansa. In return, he'd made it clear that he held far more cards than she ever could. Even if she did hold the showrunner by the dick. For now. 

Places were called and Petyr trudged up to the stands where he, as Alayne’s father, would be in the background for most of this scene. Later, they'd close up on his character awkwardly flirting with the actress beside him. For now, he only had to play to the woman in pantomime. Which was good because the blonde woman's low cut tank top did nothing to keep his mind from Sansa's lithe legs. Or the way she had swiveled her hips, the glimpse of her pert little behind. 

Christ he was in trouble. It was getting increasingly difficult to view her as a daughter - either as his own onscreen or the child that could have been if Cat had only given him a chance. 

Cat… when was the last time he'd even really thought of her? Early on, last season, he'd taken to sending her the occasional message through Sansa. When those got no reply, he'd tried an email. Still nothing. Miffed, he'd resolved to keep drawing Sansa closer, winning her affections. Surely Cat couldn't miss such a fixture in her daughter’s new life. 

Yet, as he went about this new plan, he found himself increasingly charmed by the girl, herself. She was a little vain, ever so slightly spoiled, but genuinely tender-hearted and kind. Before Christmas, she'd brought in mini stockings stuffed with candy and a Starbucks card for every single member of the cast and crew. She seemed to remember almost everyone by name and made polite conversation without discrimination. 

Besides that, she was intelligent, wise beyond her years and well spoken. Her insights into her character were usually quite solid. And they seemed to share a certain love of dry humor. Making her laugh was sometimes the highlight of his day. 

And yes, she was increasingly enjoyable to look upon. Especially in that suit, having cast aside the hoodie as she filmed the swim meet scene with a gaggle of other young women. All featured extras, this lot. Some of them much older than high school but still playing teens. Good work, if you could get it. Youth, or the appearance of it, was a golden ticket in Hollywood. Every girl on set was a model/actress. All of them fresh faced, fit, and pretty. 

None could hold a damn candle to Sansa. 

He reminded himself to make a broad overture to the blonde actress beside him. Bleached teeth, bleached hair, real tan and fake breasts. Also a featured extra. He'd already forgotten her name. 

Tyrion called cut and Sansa hoisted herself from the pool with both arms on the edge. Petyr swore inwardly as he couldn't help but notice that the water must have been chilly. Her high, firm breasts both ended in very noticeable peaks. He saw Tyrion's gaze take that in, as well, just before Sansa was engulfed in an enormous towel by Shae. Tyrion shifted his expression a hair too slowly to appear totally ignorant. Shae glared daggers at her lover as she dried Sansa off a little too roughly. Petyr bit back a smug smile. At least if Shae ever did prove to be a difficulty, she would be an easy enough pawn to remove from the board. 

That thought fortified him as he endured take after take with the blonde actress pushing her fake tits in his direction. 

Later that night, he gave in to temptation at last and took himself in hand. Sansa's image was easy enough to conjure in his mind, svelte and dripping wet in a shimmering suit that fit like a second skin. He imagined shaping that perky bottom with both hands, taking one nipple then the other into his mouth as she writhed against him. Her legs would wrap around his hips, ankles crossing, drawing him close to where she wanted him most…

Her name on his lips, he came faster than he had in years. 

 


	6. When I Think About You

The first time Sansa got herself off while thinking about Petyr was almost unintentional.

It was a rare day off and she was home, blessedly alone. Arya was at lacrosse, Mom had taken Rickon to a play date, and Dad had taken Bran to get fitted for a new chair. They'd all be gone hours.

After making herself a breakfast smoothie, she returned to bed to luxuriate in peace. The big screen in her room was calling her name. Petyr bought it for her 15th birthday but she rarely got the chance to use it. Spent more time in her trailer, anyhow. Since they got picked up for a second season, the trailers had gotten nicer. There was a full bath in hers, now, and a nice kitchenette.

She spent a bit of time in Petyr's trailer, too. They liked to run lines together when there was time. When he first suggested it, she'd tried to get Jon or even Tommen to join them but it was usually just the two of them. Tommen had a private acting coach his mother paid for and wasn't allowed to run lines with anyone else. And Jon… well, Jon never really seemed to warm to her. He had barely spoke to anyone, preferring to spend his breaks hunched over a notebook she assumed contained lyrics from the way he’d scribble furiously while mouthing the words. She supposed it was just as well considering she actually thought his music was boring and pretentious. She wasn’t sure what on earth they’d even talk about.

It would have been nice, though, to make a new friend on set. Tommen was nearly tolerable when his mom wasn’t there but he was too young for good conversation. And Shae seemed alright, but her frank manner always left Sansa feeling a bit unsteady.

Luckily, Petyr was always around, quick with a joke or a bit of gossip about the crew. They had quickly settled into an easy routine since that first day. Whenever they had filming days together - which was most of them - he’d come to fetch her after makeup and walk her to wardrobe. He always seemed to notice when her flowers were wilting and showed up the next day with fresh ones. They really did help to brighten the otherwise generic space. Shae made a few pointed remarks about the inappropriate nature of her friendship with an older man but Sansa told her that Petyr had been nothing but… well, friendly.

He never touched anything but her arm or shoulder, occasionally her back or waist. And he'd never done anything racier than kiss her cheek. Shae remained suspicious but, honestly, the makeup artist was sleeping with Tyrion, an infamous womanizer, who'd been known to use his family name and connections on more than one casting couch. It called the woman's tastes and opinions seriously into question.

Besides, Sansa really liked that Petyr, unlike most of the “adults” on set, always took the time to listen to her. He joked with her and seemed delighted when she joked back. He gave good advice and took her opinions seriously. Basically, he treated her like a respected co-star, not a little girl who needed supervision.

Sansa settled against her pillows and turned on the television. Enough of thinking about work. Her tutor had her doing algebra for hours the day before and her brain felt like mush. She was long overdue for some relaxation time.

Since she'd be 16 soon, she'd bargained with her parents to release some of the parental controls so now at least she could get most the movie channels. She was idly flipping through them when she spotted a familiar face.

Speak of the devil, as Mom would say.

It was definitely Petyr, but before the silver had appeared in his hair. Or maybe they'd dyed it for the part. It was hard to tell. He was clearly younger than she ever knew him. And more disheveled than she'd ever seen him on or off set. She grinned, thinking of how he must have loathed the longer, tangled hair and the unshaven cheeks. Offscreen, he was very fussy about his appearance. But at least that meant he always smelled nice.  

Her finger lingered over the button to channel up, wondering if this was one of those cheesy 90’s movies he occasionally referenced with mild embarrassment. He confessed to her that he found most of them unwatchable, in retrospect.

So far, not much was happening. Just establishing shots of a messy, low rent apartment. The camera panned back to Petyr's character facing a mirror. He began to unbutton his shirt.

Sansa swallowed, her cheeks flushing. Definitely time to change the channel. Sure, it was on tv for the world to see… but with the close friendship that had developed between them it felt almost wrong for _her_ to watch it. Invasive, in a way.

And yet, her finger was not pressing the button.

Onscreen, Petyr shucked his shirt. He was as lean as she'd expected but not so bony. She knew his arms were well defined from seeing him in short sleeved shirts but hadn't thought much of it, before. He'd mentioned doing yoga and martial arts to stay in shape.

Clearly that was not a new habit.

There was a smattering of dark hair across the plane of his chest, narrowing to a thin trail that disappeared below his belt. It was separated slightly by a thin scar visible from sternum to bellybutton. It was a very good prosthetic, she thought, absentmindedly. Ultra realistic even in high def.

The character he was playing seemed to be critically examining himself, cocking his head to one side, smoothing a hand over his taut abdomen. Almost unconsciously she licked her lips as the camera lingered in all the places her gaze did. He turned to the side, his mouth quirking in a way she recognized. He made that same face when he won an argument or a game of scrabble. Unabashedly cocky and just a little too amused with himself.

She'd always hated that face. Usually because it meant she'd just lost the game of scrabble. Or chess. He'd been patiently teaching her that, lately, despite her only vague interest. For the moment, she found she didn't mind that face at all. Her teeth sunk into her lower lip.

Onscreen, his hand came to his belt buckle.

Sansa averted her eyes, suddenly all too aware of the pleasant ache blooming between her legs.

She was saved further embarrassment as the presumable female lead burst through the door, yelling at him about drug money. The two took off together, Petyr's shirt once more safely buttoned.

The woman playing the lead was no one Sansa had seen before or since. Not surprising, given the rather wooden performance she was turning in. Later, she showed her breasts. Which, Sansa reasoned, was probably why she'd landed the part. She was also very attractive and at least she had great chemistry with Petyr. Or maybe that was all him. There was a scene in a bar where he stared at her from across a room with a heated look. Like he wanted to eat her alive - and she'd enjoy every moment.

There was something… familiar in that look, though it had never been so blatant on the face she knew so well. A shiver ran down her spine.

By the time she reached their first kiss, Sansa realized she'd dropped the remote. She picked it back up, clutching it like a lifeline. It gave her stomach a funny little turn to see him making out with this subpar actress. Even knowing he was just doing his job.

She still didn't hit the button, though, watching half-mesmerized as Petyr roughly pulled the woman to him and devoured her mouth. The actress was absurdly over the top as she moaned and rolled her hips but Petyr took control of the kiss (and the scene) by pushing her back against a wall. Sansa could see his fingers digging into the flesh of the woman's hip as he leaned in to take her mouth again. Sansa's core gave a sympathetic throb as the woman yielded, her ridiculous mewling turning into a gasp.

Petyr reached for the hem of the woman's shirt and Sansa flipped the channel at last. Some reality show was on and she tried to refocus her attention on that. It was no good (neither was the show, but that was kind of the point). Bolts of nervous energy were still running through her. As though she'd just done something very, very forbidden rather than watching her friend suck face with a boring actress.

She squirmed in her nest of blankets, unable to lay still. Pictures of Petyr, running a hand over his stomach to his belt… that animal look he'd given the love interest, kept running through her head. She'd always known he was good looking, for an older guy. He and her parents had all been teen idols or something in their day.

But watching him in movies with her mom, being shy and awkward and sweet, had been very different. Seeing him as an adult (though still younger than she'd ever known him) with so much confidence and swagger, more like Petyr the way he was at award shows and networking events but without the false smile…. It was having a strange and uncomfortable effect. And then that kiss…

She decided to get dressed and go for a run. She'd taken up running recently, still intent on combating the last of her stubborn baby fat.

The rest of the family - except Arya - had returned home by the time she did. Bran had just finished showing off his new chair but happily began again for Sansa's benefit. Mom made snacks for everyone and then ran lines with Sansa while she dutifully folded laundry. Once Arya got home, she and Sansa immediately fell back into the fight they'd been having the night before but their father broke it up as usual. They all had pizza for dinner. Arya ate like a pig, of course, and Rickon spilled butter sauce everywhere.  

All in all, it turned out to be a rather normal day. Sansa's thoughts didn't return to Petyr Baelish at all. Until that night.

She couldn't sleep very well and she had an early call the next day. Her friend Jeyne had once taught her a little trick to get to sleep. Something she'd read in Cosmo, probably. Sansa had been mortified at the time but, well, it did seem to work.

Laying back, she snaked a hand below her panties and thought about the teenage pop sensation whose face was plastered all over her bedroom walls. She retraced the steps of her favorite fantasy, where he pulled her up on stage and kissed her senseless.

She slid one finger along her slit, gathering her own wetness to run over the nub at the top. Her favorite singer dipped her and kissed her neck. But her fantasy’s gentle ministrations and romantic words weren't stirring anything she wanted to feel.

Wiggling her hips impatiently, she licked her fingers to re-wet them. Perhaps his eyes weren't the right color anymore. Instead of a misty blue like her own, her fantasy boy’s eyes went green, then silvery grey, then settled somewhere between the two. His mop of blonde hair went darker and darker until it was nearly black. His smooth cheeks grew a smattering of shadow.

Fuck, she knew that face all too well. But she was too far gone to pull back, her fingers working faster, coated in her own slickness.

He grabbed her, hard, mouth pressing down against hers. And there was no romance and no poetry to it, purely feral need. Want. He kissed like he was starved for her. His hands traveled her body, possessive and scorching hot. She was melting into him, burning bright and fast.

As her pleasure washed over her, her lips could only form a single word.

“Petyr!”


	7. Not So Boring

“E! keeps calling,” Sansa sighed, flicking through her magazine with faraway eyes.

“You say that like it's a bad thing…” Petyr prompted, pouring himself a drink and her a soda. It was unfortunate how aware she had to be every moment of her diet. He liked to think of himself as creating a safe haven for her. A place she could indulge without shame or guilt.

“They want to do some stupid reality show… _Keeping up with the Starks_ or something. I really think Dad would put his fist through the phone and punch them, if he could.” She grinned, eyes stopping on a fashion spread.

“Hmm, what he lacks in elegance I suppose he makes up for in brute strength,” Petyr observed idly, keeping his tone just shy of snide.

Sansa shrugged, only half listening to him. She was accustomed by now to his left handed remarks about her parentage. When she was angry with them it came in handy. She always saw him as an ally.

“Not like we're even interesting at home,” she continued. “For a Hollywood family, we just argue and eat meatloaf a lot. Nothing weird and crazy like you need for ratings.”

“Maybe it's what America needs. Something warm and fuzzy, like _Where the Heart Is_ only in real life. Head’s up.” He tossed the packet of her favorite lemon meringue cookies toward her and she caught them mid air. He whistled. “Good catch.”

She looked up with a smile as she pulled off the lid and began munching away. He couldn't stand the sickly sweet treat but he kept them around because they were her favorite. Anything to keep her coming back.

In the two and half years they'd been working together, he'd kept waiting for some sort of paternal instinct to set in. He felt… something akin to affection for her, slightly protective and altogether rather possessive. But it couldn't be described as paternal. Not the way his blood rose when she’d worn that bathing suit - still some of his favorite fantasy material. Not the way he couldn't stop staring at her mouth when they ran lines together, to the point where he sometimes had to start over. And certainly not the way he frequently found himself fisting his cock in the shower after she left, too overcome to even feel ashamed.

He knew his feelings for Cat had faded, never fully disappearing but becoming an odd backdrop to his memories. Like another life, when he'd been more dreamer than schemer.

Sansa was more fitting for the man he'd become, in spite of her youth. Or perhaps because of it. He wasn't sure. She had a wicked sense of humor and a quick mind to match her quick temper. He liked that he couldn't always predict her every thought. It was a rare quality.

He knew it was too soon to act on his very un-fatherly instincts. Even if she did clumsily flirt back, on occasion. It wasn't worth risking his professional reputation or pushing her past her comfort zone. They'd developed quite a cozy little world, together. She came to him for advice, not just on acting, and seemed to value his input quite highly.

Petyr was patient. He'd held that torch for Cat well over a decade. He could certainly wait two more years for Sansa.

“They could call it _Stark Raving Sane_ ,” he joked, placing her soda on the table beside her.

“Huh?”

“Your reality show.”

“Oh, yeah. I guess.” She drank from the soda glass without looking at it. “I must be the most boring child star ever,” she lamented, tossing her magazine onto his coffee table.

Petyr raised an eyebrow, sliding into the seat beside hers. “What makes you say that?”

“Remember Jeyne Poole? From that Disney thing a few years back? We were friends for a while but she started to get way into the drug scene and we sort of lost touch.” She pointed to the magazine. “Says here she just got out of her second stint at rehab. And Margaery's been in the business since younger than I started and she's got all kinds of crazy stories! She's always out at clubs and I know for a fact she started going way before she turned 18.” Sansa heaved a melodramatic sigh, leaning back against the cushions and turning her head toward him. “I'm boring.”

Petyr chuckled, turning to put one leg up onto the couch, his torso facing her. Margaery Tyrell, who recently joined the cast a part time player, had been regaling them all with highlights of her night life. Of course, Petyr was already far too familiar with that road, and with the way Margaery had taken it. At 22, Margaery had more than her fair share of tales to tell, most of them not meant for mixed company. 

His arm lay across the back of the cushions, far enough to look casual, near enough to almost stroke Sansa's hair. Petyr inched forward, fingertips sliding along a few silky red strands but if Sansa felt it, she gave no sign. “I hardly think poor life choices are the only thing to make a person interesting,” he offered. 

Sansa made a face at him but there was a smile in her eyes. “It's just…. I don't go out partying because Mom and Dad would have a shit fit. I don't do drugs or really drink much or have a boyfriend or anything! I mean, what kind of a loser is still even a virgin at my age, let alone…” she scrunched up her nose, cheeks tinging pink as her gaze dropped quickly and both hands covered her face. “Sorry. Ugh. Sorry that was way too much information. I'm just tired. We can run lines later…”

When she made to stand up, Petyr lightly grabbed her wrist, pulling her back onto the sofa. “Sansa… There's no shame in... waiting for the right person.” His throat clenched slightly around his carefully chosen words. She'd landed closer than she'd been before and he was acutely aware of her thigh now pressing against his lower leg.

She gave a derisive snort but made no move to pull away. “Yeah. Says the guy who was probably fucking at 14.”

“18, actually,” he corrected quietly.

She looked up in genuine shock, at that. “Weren't you on the cover of Teen Beat like, a dozen times before then? You could have had anyone!”

He hesitated before settling on a simple truth. “I didn't want just _anyone_.”

Sansa took a moment to consider this. “Well I've never even been kissed offscreen, to be honest. Onscreen kisses don't count,” she added, as though sharing a tidbit of wisdom.

“Margaery tell you that?” he guessed.

Sansa made a sound of agreement. “She says I'm picky but that it's alright to be picky because guys will want you more if you make them work for it.”

“How would she know?” Petyr jested.

“Ooh, careful or I'll tell her you said that!” Sansa’s giggle belied the threat.

Petyr wasn't worried either way. He had a rather sound working relationship with Margaery Tyrell; they'd been in one another's orbit for years. Had she been there, she'd have quipped right back. When Sansa's hand landed on his knee as she reached to grab her script from the table, Petyr was quickly reminded of why he was very, very glad Margaery was not there.

“Who was she, anyway?” Sansa was thumbing through her script, not looking at him.

“Sorry?”

She looked up. “You didn't want just _anyone_. So there was probably a someone. Who was it? Anyone I know?”

His jaw tightened. “Does it matter, now?”

She shrugged one shoulder, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. “It does if you got her.”

Petyr frowned. The memory of losing his virginity would always be a muggy haze of disappointment and hurt.

The night Cat told him that they'd never been dating, that it was all for show, Petyr had gotten blindingly, staggeringly drunk. He'd still been living at her house in those days. Cat’s little sister, Lysa, was also living there at the time. Lysa had made her attraction to Petyr uncomfortably obvious, going so far as to parade about the house in all manner of skimpy clothing. Petyr clearly only had eyes for Cat but this seemed to merely stoke the sibling rivalry the younger girl felt.

Lysa wanted to be an actress like her big sis but she lacked the temperament, the charm, and the talent. She was attractive enough, back then, young, slender, and red-haired. Very like Cat, if one were squinting.

Or if one were, say, three sheets to the wind and nursing a broken heart.

Some part of him had truly believed that somehow it was Cat who crawled into his bed that night. That it was Cat who undressed him and caressed him, getting him hard and climbing atop him. He was somewhere between waking and dreaming and he didn't even come.

When he woke in the morning, his dreams were shattered. Lysa lay beside him, naked and snoring.

He'd moved out the next day.

“Petyr?”

He'd gone silent again too long. “Sorry. Wool gathering.”

“What?” Sansa tilted her head to the side.

“Nevermind, sweetling. Let's get through this scene and call it a night, yeah? I think I'm tired, too.”

Sansa looked like she was biting back several more questions but she complied nonetheless. They read through a couple times then went off book once, feeding each other lines as needed. After a while, Petyr's attention was flagging and Sansa gave a wide yawn.

“Alright. I think that's a wrap for tonight,” he plucked the script from her hands and flipped it closed. “We both need some beauty sleep - though I certainly need it more than you.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, grinning fondly as they both came to their feet. “You're not so bad.”

“Oh, to be thought of so highly,” he rejoined dryly, smiling to blunt his tone.

She faced him, taking his hand. “I mean it. I think you're still magazine cover material,” her eyes flit over his face, his hair, the line of his shoulders. “Maybe not Teen Beat anymore, but…”

“If you say AARP, I may never speak to you again.”

Sansa laughed and Petyr felt his chest constrict. She was so lovely. And standing so very close. Telling him her innermost secrets and very nearly calling him handsome. Something delightful and just a little devious tickled his mind.

_a virgin at my age, let alone…never even been kissed offscreen..._

Was it a hint? An invitation? Too soon to tell, but if the way she was looking at him was any indication, he may not be so far off. He licked his lips, heart beating a little too fast as he took a small step closer. Her eyes widened but she did not move away. His hand found the very end of her ponytail, slung over one shoulder, and he twirled it around one finger. That perfect Tully red. Like Cat’s and yet not. Unique in its own way.

Before he could stop himself, he'd cupped Sansa's cheek with one hand. Her eyes searched his, her breath warm against his face. Then he kissed her. Just a soft press of lips, barely more than the space of a heartbeat. A mingled breath.

He pulled away, trying to stop himself from trembling. Sansa was staring, flushed and unmoving.

His voice was low and rough when he found it again. “There. Now you've been kissed offscreen.”

Sansa was still for a moment, wide-eyed and silent. Slowly, the corners of her mouth turned up. “Um. Thanks. See you tomorrow!”

And she was off, into the night, her car keys clutched tight in her hand.

Petyr stood at his door in her wake, fumbling for his pack of menthols. He pulled out a cigarette then decided against it. He wasn't ready to erase the taste of her just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my non-Americans:  
> Tiger Beat is a US publication since 1965 that focuses on teen idols.  
> AARP is a US organization for senior citizens and they, too, have a magazine.


	8. Knight in Shining.... Something

The first real challenge for Petyr’s claim to Sansa’s affections stood 5 foot 10 in the form of Joffrey Baratheon.

Cersei’s eldest son had been cast - poorly cast, in Petyr’s opinion - as a love interest for Alayne. It was clear that Cersei was angling to get Joffrey status as a cast regular. A handsome boy, he tested well enough with the young female demographic to make him a returning feature.

The obvious spark of interest in Sansa’s eyes when she took in the tall blond boy had Petyr grinding his teeth. It only got worse from there.

Suddenly, Joffrey was escorting Sansa about town, both of them fashionably dressed and smiling. The paparazzi snapped photos of them holding hands as they strolled down Rodeo with matching Starbucks cups. It was framed innocently enough and Sansa was clearly a willing participant but Petyr was forcibly reminded of the early days with Cat. What a pawn he’d been, then. Surely Sansa could do better..

He tried to drop hints, subtle reminders of how appearances could be deceiving. She turned a deaf ear to any criticism of Joffrey, however, and the relationship between them felt tenuous enough that he could not press the matter.

The night he had kissed her, he was terrified she'd never return to his trailer or that she might tell her mother. Both fears were allayed when she smiled warmly at him the next morning as he appeared for their morning walk to set. Yet, there was a shift in the air about her. She seemed uneasy in a way she had never been with him, babbling about superfluous things and twisting her fingers together. She flushed bright pink and averted her gaze if he looked at her too long.

A month passed and they never mentioned the kiss; it just lay between them, heavily unspoken.

It had been wrong - oh so deliciously wrong - to kiss her. Petyr was a man of the world and he knew a thing or two about the age of consent. He’d read the laws in full when he began his side business in the adult industry. Sansa was, for all intents and purposes, physically off limits to him until her 18th birthday. That didn’t mean he couldn’t continue to draw her close, casually run his hand the length of her back, or curl her hair between his fingers. But kissing her had been too much. Not just  for legal purposes - there, he had plausible deniability - but for his own peace of mind. Because in that one moment, he’d shattered a year’s worth of restraint.

He could only imagine what the next moment might bring.

Still, if his hugs lingered a little overlong, if his thumb stroked the inside of her wrist when he held her hand as they read through the next week’s script, Sansa never seemed to mind. Sometimes she even shifted closer, resting her head on his shoulder under the guise of being tired from a long day of shooting, letting him pet her, run his fingers through her hair. It was never enough but it was as much as he could take without going too far. Without stealing a moment he couldn’t give back.

Then, only a few weeks into this new dynamic, Joffrey had come along, a foreign spider in the web Petyr spun. It made his fists clench and his stomach roil to see them at the Craft service table, Joffrey playing gallant and Sansa laughing just a little too loudly. She suddenly  began spending her spare time in Joffrey’s trailer instead of his.

On set, Petyr tried to charm her back, but there was only so much he could do or say with so many eyes on them. Their friendship had been a subject of much contention from day one, given the age gap. He'd managed to convince most of those concerned that he was a father figure to her. Tyrion remained skeptical, as was his nature, but truly nothing untoward had ever happened (barring the kiss that still burned on Petyr's lips) so nothing could be proven and the gossip hounds moved on.

Sansa's absence in his trailer felt like a fist to the gut, like a part of him had disappeared. It was an uncomfortable feeling, that gnawing emptiness. He had been working so hard to make himself essential to _her_ , he never realized how far she'd burrowed into _his_ daily life.

Until at last, there she was again at his door, pink-faced and tear stained. His concern was tainted with a fair amount of relief just to have her back where she belonged. Once he admitted her, she fell into his arms sobbing. The only words he could understand of the torrent falling from her mouth were _Joffrey, force,_ and _hurt_. He surmised that the boy had not succeeded in taking what he wanted, but it had been a near thing. It was enough to have Petyr seeing red. Sansa wanted to call the authorities but he stilled her hand.

“Lannister money and Baratheon connections,” Petyr shook his head, his face grave. “He’ll never see the inside of a cell.”

Sansa pulled away, still clutching her cell phone. “I have to tell someone, Petyr. I’ll call TMZ if I have to.”

Bile rose at the back of Petyr’s throat at the public crucifixion that would no doubt await Sansa at the other end of such a call. He took her by the shoulders. “Sweetling, please. Listen to me. TMZ is not and never will be your friend in this. There’s nothing the public loves more than tearing down their idols. They’ll come for you, eventually, but to invite them in... it’s career suicide for where you are, right now.”

Her brow furrowed. “But… I didn’t do anything.”

“You were seen with him. Flirting. Holding hands. In the court of public opinion, it’s enough.” He took a breath, one hand stroking briefly over her cheek, brushing away an angry tear. This close, he could feel the adrenal pulsing through her, the way she was still shaking with fear and rage. He gentled his voice. “Best case scenario: you become a meme or they make T-shirts taking sides. It’s not… It won’t be any good for you.”

Sansa pulled away, wrapping both arms around herself. “Best case scenario? This isn’t a spec episode. This is my life. He… Petyr, he tried to... “ She shook her head, heaving a ragged breath. “He can’t just do something like this and get away with it.” She looked up at him pleadingly, her blue eyes made paler by the fresh tears that sprang to them.

“And he won’t. I promise you that.” He closed the space between them, pulling her back into the circle of his arms. She went willingly, burying her head in the space where his neck met shoulder. She’d get mascara on his shirt, he realized with a twinge of distaste. But it was a worthy price to pay, as he kissed her hair and whispered reassurances.

“There are more ways than one to destroy someone who needs destroying, sweetling,” he murmured.

She shifted, arms still locked tight around his waist, head tilting to eye him with a resolute expression. “What do we do?”

And just like that, she was _his_ once more.

The easy part was ejecting Joffrey from the show. As a producer, himself, it was only a matter of appealing to the money. Advertisers were targeting the young adults in the viewing audience and Joffrey had quickly lost his shine. The character was blandly written and Joffrey hadn’t helped himself by engaging in numerous Twitter wars with other young actors and pop stars. His contributions were generally obtuse and poorly spelled, rarely retweeted unless in mocking. He hadn’t trended in weeks, aside from a blip whenever he appeared in public with Sansa.

Extricating Sansa from the presumed relationship took a touch more finesse. For that, he enlisted the aid Margaery Tyrell. At 22, Margaery was ready to move on and stop playing teens. Petyr had a few ideas that appealed to her twisted sense of humor.

The three of them, Petyr, Sansa, and Margaery manufactured a perfect little pantomime for public consumption. Petyr looped Sansa in every step of the way, explaining the pertinent moves before he made them. Sansa was fascinated, eager even, to see the strings being pulled behind the scenes. He’d always known she was clever and it made his heart swell with something akin to pride seeing her take to the art of subterfuge with such alacrity.

Margaery had no trouble reeling Joffrey to her and made a great show of their whirlwind romance - going so far as to plant rumors of a Vegas wedding. Sansa dutifully played the spurned lover in mourning.

Petyr then managed to have some very compromising photos of Margaery leaked, the blame landing quickly at Joffrey’s feet. They'd been on Joffrey's phone and many of them taken without obvious consent, blurry and at oblique angles. For good measure, they threw in a few that implied he'd also been spying on the underage girls on cast.

The latter had actually been at Sansa’s suggestion, though Petyr drew the line at including photos of herself. Leaked photos were best saved for another kind of opportunity. Sansa quickly saw the wisdom in that. Such a clever little treasure. 

Tywin and Cersei went head to head over the scandal, the mama lioness protecting her cub as best she could. Luckily, Cersei was mostly wine-scented bark and little bite. Her oratory fireworks were no match for her own father’s sturdy business sense. Joffrey was dropped like a bad habit, his reputation in tatters. No other studio wanted to touch him.

It was no more than the nasty little fucker deserved.

Margaery magnanimously declined to press charges if the network would let her out of her contract by the end of the year. Eventually, she and Sansa were very publically united in friendship, tearfully embracing before flashing cameras at the premiere of a movie in which Margaery had a small part.

Sansa, of course, remained completely untainted by the scandal, a veritable saint in her capacity for patience and forgiveness.

As the whole thing began to blow over, Petyr realized that he may have erred only slightly, in further uniting Sansa with the likes of Margaery Tyrell. The girls became inseparable in Margaery’s last few months on the show, giggling and whispering together on set, staying out late enough to anger Sansa’s overprotective parents. Once more, Petyr's trailer was emptier than he'd like.  It was good, Petyr had no doubt, for Sansa to have female friends closer to her own age.

That didn’t stop him from counting the days until Margaery would be off the show for good.


	9. Dressed to Stun

It was the night of the last cast party she'd ever get to attend with Margaery and Sansa was having very mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, Margaery was getting what she wanted, moving on from teen roles into adulthood, and, as a friend, Sansa was excited for her. On the other… it felt like she was losing a sister. A real sister, not just a blood relative with whom she could barely communicate. Oh, they’d stay in touch. They already texted frequently. But there was just something different about being able to see her every day versus trying to coordinate their crazy shooting schedules.

Sansa realized that she’d never actually had a best friend before. Someone who just _got it._ They talked about anything and everything and Margaery told the most outrageous stories about about her party girl days in her teens - including that stint at rehab that only her grandmother (and, for some reason, Petyr) knew about.

It had been nice having someone around who seemed to really understand what it was like to be a growing teenage starlet in Hollywood's small pond. Not that Petyr wasn’t always there for her but that relationship had gotten… complicated.

In fact, Petyr was the one thing Sansa didn’t talk about with Margaery.

The three of them had worked well together in that little subterfuge that got Joffrey banned from set. Petyr and Margaery had filmed together in the past - a big budget summer release that flopped and a few indie projects - but that didn’t explain the odd camaraderie between them. They batted ideas back and forth between them like two cats with a very unfortunate mouse. It had been just a bit intimidating to watch their minds at work. They made every effort to include her, though. Petyr, especially, seemed to welcome her feedback and her ideas.

Margaery sometimes got a strange look on her face if Sansa sat too close to him or found an excuse to touch his arm or his hand. It wasn't jealousy - of that Sansa was relatively certain. Petyr and Margaery were the two biggest flirts Sansa knew but neither had ever seemed to lay an eye on the other in that way. In fact, their relationship actually almost reminded Sansa of how things had been with her and Robb before he left for college. Comfortable but adversarial, always competing to sit at the head of the table. There was history there, to be sure, but it didn't seem romantic. All the same, Sansa took an odd sense of satisfaction in the fact Petyr always sat beside her and not Margaery. 

Perhaps it was a little bit insane, Sansa thought, feeling the way she sort of felt about Petyr after how things had gone with Joffrey. But Petyr had never been anything but gentlemanly. Even his kiss (her first kiss) had been gentler than any of Joff’s ever had been. And he hadn’t tried to kiss her since then. A fact which was both frustrating and bit of a relief because she didn’t have the slightest idea how she would react.

She’d had a few dreams about Petyr in the past year from which she woke flustered and panting, a pleasant ache blooming between her legs. There had more waking fantasies, as well, especially now that she could feel the brush of his warm lips against hers, that little tickle of his moustache, the faint taste of mint. But dreams and fantasies were easy. She could control the fantasy and a dream ended when she woke up. The reality of Petyr was just a bit trickier. Just being near him sometimes made her want things she wasn’t sure she was ready to want, just yet. Not after Joffrey.

Her dreams of the latter were a horrific counterpoint to those of Petyr. No matter how hard she tried to stop it, her unconscious mind would stray to that night when she was pinned down, helpless, subject to groping hands and a slobbering mouth with breath reeking of beer. It sent a shudder through her to even think of him in her waking hours.

Spending time with Margaery had been a welcome distraction, as well as a convenient excuse to slightly avoid Petyr until she was able to sort out what she really wanted. She could tell Petyr was not entirely happy with the circumstance but he gave her her space. He hadn't been trying to tempt her away, back to his trailer, the way he had when it was Joffrey taking up so much of her time. Sansa took this as tacit approval, or at least a lack of total objection to her choice of Margaery's company.

And yet she could feel Petyr's gaze on her like a caress, like a suggestive whisper in her ear. He had taken to looking at her again the way he once had, heated and searching, and just a little bit sad. She wouldn't have noticed the sadness before, not when she was younger and didn't understand him quite so well. There was always just a touch of melancholy about Petyr, something he tried to hide behind flirtation, false smiles and clever quips. Sansa knew better, now, even if she didn't know the story behind that fathomless gaze. In their time together, she had peeled back some of Petyr's layers and seen him in a way no one else ever did. The way he'd always seemed to see her.  

The look on his face after he'd kissed had been more raw than anything she'd ever experienced. The very thought of it still stopped her breath. 

“Well, this one’s a little long-waisted on me, so it will probably fit you. Skirt might be kinda scandalous though…” Margaery popped out of her closet holding up a teal dress on a satin hanger and disrupting Sans'a reverie. Her mouth twisted to one side the way it did when she was thinking through something.

 "It's gorgeous!" Sansa exclaimed, holding the dress against her skin. It complimented her lack of a tan and would be a perfect cool contrast to her flaming hair. She pulled off her sundress and slid into the slinky material. "Seems to fit, so far. What do you think?" She smoothed it over her slim hips and turned to Margaery.

The brunette crossed her arms and loudly blew out a breath, "Fuck me...."

Sansa giggled. "Thanks for the offer but you're not my type." She crossed to the full length mirrored closet door. "Oh my God..." she breathed, "I love it, Marg." It hugged every curve, leaving her long, lean legs almost fully exposed below the flirty hem.  Sansa's hands went to her hair, experimentally twisting it up into a high ponytail and turning her three quarters to admire her cheekbones. They were more prominent now that the babyfat was gone from her face. She looked like a woman. More importantly, she looked like a real Hollywood actress, someone who belonged on a red carpet.

Margaery shook her head. "Shit never fit me that way." Her lips pressed together, head tilted as she surveyed Sansa a long moment. "I think I might be obligated to hate you. Just, like, a little bit."

Sansa stuck the tip of her tongue out from between her teeth. "Oh come on, which of us was in the 100 sexiest list this year?" 

"Yeah, as number 98." The other girl wrinkled her nose. "Besides, I bet they only left you out because you're underage." She gestured one hand the length of Sansa's body. "Anybody who sees you in this will definitely campaign to get you on the list next year." She stepped closer, tugging at the hem. "A bit on the jailbait side, though, don't you think?" 

Every now and then, Margaery would say things like, being the older and wiser friend. Sansa knew it was just Marg looking out for her, really, but it didn't stop the irritation from rising. It wasn't like they were all _that_ far apart in age, after all. Sansa was hardly a child, anymore. 

Sansa pulled away from her friend, hands on her hips. "I'm 18 in less than half a year. I think I'll be safe at a party with practically half the people I've known since I was, like, 14." 

Margaery held both hands up in a position of surrender. "Hey, I get it. Not trying to be the mom friend, here, I promise. Just..." a frown played over Margaery's mouth before her face cleared into her usual crooked grin. "We need to find you the perfect shoes. In that dress, every eye in the place will be on those legs of yours!"

Ire momentarily forgotten at the promise of shoe shopping, Sansa nodded eagerly. As Marg ticked off a list of her favorite shoe stores, Sansa's attention wandered back to her reflection,  twisting to and fro in front of the mirror. She lifted on her toes, admiring the way her slender calf muscles popped, arching her back to perk her behind. Oh yes, there would be plenty of attention on her, tonight, but she was slowly realizing there was only one set of eyes that really mattered.


	10. Friends and Foes

It was rare for Cersei to show up at any cast party but Petyr assumed she was making the exception merely to spoil his evening. Rather unfairly, it worked. They’d been back and forth with his agent for days. Cersei dragging her Louboutin-clad feet the whole way. He’d finally managed to get the money he requested but she flat out refused to put him on as director even once. She knew he just wanted the credit on his IMDB and she was all too happy to deny him.

Not for the first time, he wondered if she suspected him for framing Joff. She wasn't usually this subtle in her insinuations.

The other actors and crew flocked to her the moment she sashayed through the door, rife with flattery and smiles. Petyr, usually the one with the most clout in the room, felt his lip curl at Cersei’s obvious display of power and position. She was silently putting him in his place by holding court among _his_ people.

He made a show of pulling the pack of cigarettes from his pocket as an excuse to slip from the room to the wooden balcony. He was halfway through the second cigarette of the night when he heard the door open behind him.  
  
"You know, those things will kill ya'." Sansa slid the French door closed behind her as she stepped out.  
  
"So will life, if you give it long enough," Petyr rejoined in a conversational tone, attempting to keep the bite from his voice. No need to trouble her just yet. His head was the one Cersei was after, not hers.  
  
"That's cheerful." Sansa moved closer "Can I bum one?"  
  
Petyr deliberately moved the pack away, lifting it from the small corner table and tucking it back in his pocket. "No."  
  
Sansa gave an incredulous scoff. "Why not?"  
  
"You're too young." Petyr sniffed, flicking ash over the balcony. "Besides, I hear these things will kill ya'."  
  
"Asshole." Her mouth twisted but her eyes were dancing.  
  
Petyr shrugged. "Been called worse."  
  
"To your face?"  
  
He looked at her with a wry half-smile. "Someone's feeling feisty tonight."  
  
Sansa grinned widely, turning to lean against the wrought iron railing beside him. "Margaery gave me champagne. She's nice to me. Unlike some people." She gave him an arch look.  
  
Nonplussed, Petyr stubbed out his cigarette on the railing, tossing the butt over the side.  
  
"If it's _nice_ you're looking for tonight, Sweetling, you're better off inside." He looked away into the distance, trying to focus on the cityscape rather than the girl at his side, sweetly scented of perfume and alcohol.  
  
Sansa was silent a moment before quietly replying "Well I'm not inside now, am I?"  
  
His gaze met hers almost involuntarily at that. They studied one another in the low light from the solitary lamp above the door. She looked beautiful as ever, her makeup understated and a designer dress fitted perfectly to her trim figure.She hadn’t gotten that one from wardrobe. Too adult for Alayne. But perfect for the woman Sansa was rapidly becoming. Her legs were a mile long and it was almost physically painful to keep himself from staring. Or from imagining them wrapped around his waist as she moaned his name with those pink-painted lips…

Petyr shifted his stance.

Sansa only moved closer, until her hip brushed his and he had to go nearly cross-eyed to keep meeting her gaze. She sniffed. “You smell like an ashtray. But a minty one.”

He huffed a small laugh. “How much champagne did Margaery give you?”

Sansa shrugged, still studying him intently. “I’ve never kissed someone after they’ve been smoking. Does it taste like smoke? Or like niccotine?” A sly grin spread across her mouth. "Would I get addicted?"

His breath caught and he gripped the railing tightly. Not here. Not like this. When she was still just 17 and a little bit drunk and they could be seen so easily. Just one glance through those French doors… God, but he wanted to throw all caution to the wind and take her right there, hitch up her skirt and push her up against the glass. She might even let him, too.

The doors opened behind them and they both jumped at the sound, shifting apart.

“Hey! There your are, Sans! Everyone was asking for you!” Margaery half-pushed, half-pulled the younger girl back inside. Sansa shot Petyr an apologetic look and disappeared into the noise.

Petry turned to follow only to find himself nose to nose with Margaery.

Her mouth quirked as she looked him up and down. “You two both think you’re so sneaky but you’re not.”

Petyr blinked at her, refusing to admit or deny anything. “Pardon me, Ms. Tyrell. I have things to see, people to do...” He sidestepped her.

Margaery shook her head, sighing audibly as she moved back into his path. “Even if she thinks it’s what she wants… she is still a kid, Petyr…”

“So were you, once,” he asserted, remembering all the trouble he’d helped her out of when she was Sansa’s age.

Margaery wrinkled her nose. “Was I though? Was I ever?” She reached into his jacket and plucked a cigarette from the pack. He obliged her by lighting it when she held it to her lips. “Hard to remember when you grow up that fast.”

They shared a silence as she inhaled and blew the smoke to the side. Despite their easy camaraderie, Petyr knew better than to fully trust any Tyrell. He had a long history with her family.  

“Is this a warning, Margaery?”

She shook her head again, pursing her lips and glancing over one shoulder. “She’s my friend, that’s all. I kinda care, you know?”

“Do you think I don’t?” His jaw clenched and unclenched.

Margaery’s large, expressive eyes were sad, juxtaposed by the small smile that curved her mouth. “Never said that. Just…. let her be a kid? Just a little bit longer?”

Petyr said nothing as he took the cigarette from her fingers and put it to his own lips. He schooled his expression to a hard neutrality, steely and unfazed, all the while his heart beat out a wild staccato.

Margaery swallowed, her smile fading. “Then at least keep her safe.”

“It's nice to agree on something, at last,” he said blandly.

Margaery held his gaze another moment, a mixture of warmth and revulsion in her eyes. The way she'd nearly always looked at him. But there was still that sadness, deep and overarching. They shared an odd understanding, the two of them.  They both knew what it took to grow up in the eye of the public, to survive into adulthood in the hornets’ nest. How it changed you.

They weren't friends. Petyr didn't have friends. But if he did, he could have done much worse than Margaery Tyrell.

She smiled again, broad and false this time. “Goodbye, Petyr. It's been… nice working with you.”

And then she was gone.

Petyr crushed the half smoked cigarette under one heel, inwardly cursing bad timing and prying eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - things heat up!


	11. Summer Heat

It was Sunday afternoon, a few weeks shy of Sansa’s 18th birthday. The show was on hiatus from filming and Sansa was too bound by her contract to get much work in the interim. Margaery was off filming something overseas, so they only had limited windows of time to video chat together. Besides, it wasn’t the same when they weren’t in the same room. Sansa soon found a cure for her boredom in making her way to Petyr’s isolated house in the hills. The invitation had been extended before but she'd never felt bold enough to take him up on it until this summer. Her visits quickly became a habit.

Sansa told herself it was the peace and quiet, the companionable silence in which they could sit for hours. She told herself it was because Petyr always stocked her favorite snacks and offered her a little glass of wine (providing she wasn’t going to drive immediately after). She told herself it absolutely was not because of the way he looked at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice, the naked hunger in his eyes that brought a flush of warmth from her lower belly all the way down to her toes, pooling at her core.

But on days like this, when they kept accidentally-on-purpose brushing against one another as they shared the couch, even she didn’t believe that.  

Her parents remained under the pleasant illusion that she was spending the day with a girlfriend from set instead of the man twice her age for whom they had both expressed a strong dislike. Sansa had asked them about that when she was younger but they'd never been able to give her more than vague, frustrating answers. Sansa had decided long ago that they just didn't know the real Petyr. She did. And she trusted him more than she’d ever trusted anyone in her life. More than that, she genuinely enjoyed his company. He had his prickly moments, he could be prissy as hell about keeping his place tidy. And he was definitely a snob. Then again, so was she. They fit together in all sorts of odd little ways.

“Joffrey was making fun of you on Twitter.” Sansa frowned at her bright orange toes as she capped the little glass bottle of polish. She didn’t like thinking of Joffrey when she was with Petyr but this was, at least, a story worth sharing.  

Petyr’s upper lip curled then relaxed, the only indication of his deep distaste for the subject matter. “Is that so? I didn't even notice…”

Sansa nodded, “I should have blocked him already. He's an idiot. But I was glad I didn't because I think I really burned him, this time.” She flashed a devilish grin.

He raised an eyebrow and picked up the polish remover. She handed him the q-tips from the table and settled one foot on his upper thigh. He had offered to clean them up for her the first time she’d painted them at his place - something she often did now as a way to maintain the guise of visiting a female friend. It seemed as good an excuse as any to prolong contact, little frissons of excitement running through her as he took an unnecessarily long time to arrange her feet on his lap. By now, it had become a habit.

“I think I might try a butterfly on the big toes, this time… What do you think?”

“I think you can't just leave me hanging with a setup like that…” He tickled the bottom of her foot. 

She giggled and kicked lightly. “Careful! They're still wet.”

“And these are very expensive slacks but I like to live dangerously,” he rejoined, wrapping his hand around her foot and sliding his thumb down the arch.

Sansa looked at him, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. His gaze followed the motion and she noted with satisfaction as his Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked away, dabbing at the polish around the edge of her middle toe. “Well?”

Her mouth twisted even as butterflies took wing in her stomach. “Uh, he… he called you a has-been.”

Petyr snorted, using his own thumbnail to neaten the edge of the next toe. “I'm wounded.”

Sansa’s mood lifted as she saw the words have no impact on Petyr. He could be a lot more sensitive than he let on, so she was never quite sure how his ego would handle criticism. Puffing with pride at her own cleverness, she informed Petyr, “I told him better a _has been_ than a never will be.”

That roused a genuine laugh from him as she leaned back against the arm of the sofa and added her other foot beside the first. He began to tend to those toes.

“I believe my reputation is safe with you, sweetling.”

Satisfied, Sansa relaxed as Petyr’s thumbs began to press against her arches again, this time with just the right amount of pressure. She inhaled deeply, eyes heavy lidded in the midday heat. It was cooler up here in the hills, so much so that he hadn’t had to turn on the air yet. But the sun was hitting the shuttered window at an angle that bronzed the room. It made the whole scene before her, Petyr’s pristine living room, his clever hands smoothing over her soles, hazy and sepia toned. There was a dream-like quality in that, the sweet smelling candle he’d lit upon her arrival, the warmth cocooning her skin, Petyr’s delightful ministrations to her feet, and the room fading from view as her eyes slid closed of their own volition.

“Hey! No tickling!” She started abruptly as his finger slithered between her toes.

Petyr blinked at her, clearly biting back a smirk. “Looked like you were starting to drift off.”

“Take it as a compliment?” She wiggled her feet back toward him, tilting her head and batting her lashes ostentatiously.

He drew a breath, lips twisting in that way she’d noticed they often did when there was something he _wasn’t_ saying. “I tend to prefer your company awake.”

There was a hint of something in his eyes, something dark and just barely hidden. Sansa felt herself leaning forward as though she could catch it just by looking closer, but Petyr averted his gaze, returning his attention to her feet and ankles.

Sansa started to chew her lower lip but remembered how Shae would have lectured her about it. The young makeup artist had left the show a season ago but her lessons about skincare seemed to have stuck. Sansa swallowed and lay back down, “Well… that’s good. I prefer you awake, too.”

Another veiled smirk graced Petyr’s mouth. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he murmured, one hand stretching out over her calf muscle.

Sansa’s cheeks grew hot and she was glad she’d remembered to shave the night before. Then again, didn’t she always shave before visiting Petyr? Just in case… just in case his hand might reach higher next time, the way it seemed it might a few times in the past. He’d never touched anything past her knee. Nothing terribly inappropriate, but oh, she wanted him to.

Flustered by her own thoughts, Sansa felt herself babbling. “I shouldn’t fall asleep here, anyway. Mom and Dad only think I'm out shopping with Brienne. An impromptu sleepover might be hard to explain. Not that they should even be keeping tabs on me like that. Like I’m not more than old enough to decide on my own where I sleep,” she huffed, temporarily distracted by the continued infantilization by her family.

Petyr’s hands stilled. “They don't know you're here? With me?” His tone and facial expression were both unreadable, his eyes downcast.

“No. They think it's ‘inappropriate’ for me to visit you at home.” Sansa rolled her eyes. “They… aren’t your biggest fans, you know.”

Petyr’s expression flickered briefly, a wry smile twisting his lips. “I’m aware.”

Sansa studied him in the low light. “That’s never mattered to me, though. You know that. Right?”

He met her eyes with a smile that sent tendrils of warmth curling through her chest. “Mmh, I’ve always found you to be of far better judgement than most Starks of my acquaintance.” One hand kneaded her calf muscle, the fingertips of the other began drawing lazy little circles from her ankle upward, prickling the skin into gooseflesh.

Sansa shivered pleasantly, scooting forward so Petyr could reach higher. His eyebrows rose and resettled so quickly she might have missed it had she not been watching him so closely. In a conspiratorial tone, she confessed, “When we used to spend those late nights running lines in your trailer, I used to sometimes tell them I was out getting a snack or something with Margaery or one of the other girls.”

Petyr tilted his head. “If I'd known you had to lie…”

“You'd have stopped me?” She raised her eyebrows.

He grinned. “I'd have helped.”

Sansa laughed. “I guess I didn't really have to lie. Not all the time. But… I dunno. It's silly.”

“What?”

Sansa hesitated, picking through the dozens of excuses she'd made in her head, then shrugged as she settled on a partial truth. “Everyone in my family is all up each other's ass all the time. I mean it's nice that we're close and of course I love them but… it's been kinda nice having something they don't know about. Something just for me.”

Petyr seemed to consider this. The hand that was at her calf had ceased its massaging but his other hand was still in motion, tracing a path from ankle to where the hem of her skirt had ridden up, mid-thigh. His lips pursed in a thoughtful moue as one fingertip slid just just under the hem, toying with it, before returning to her ankle.

Sansa tensed, anticipation coiling tight in her belly, her breath coming short.

At last, Petyr spoke, his voice low and bereft of his customary casual arrogance “It's beginning to sound like I'm Sansa Stark’s dirty little secret...”

Sansa flushed from head to toe. “Is that… does it bother you?” she whispered, only realizing now that she'd moved closer. She was practically in his lap, now, only a strip of bunched up skirt preserving any notion of modesty.

“Bother me?” Petyr met her gaze again, his pupils blown. Both hands had stopped moving; one still demurely at her calf, the other settled brazenly on her upper thigh, just inches from where she had imagined it so many times. The hand on her calf rose to her face, his shoulders turning toward her. His palm settled against her jaw. “Pretty lies from such pretty lips,” he murmured, almost more to himself than to her, “and all for me?” His thumb brushed lightly across her lips.

Sansa parted them at his touch, inhaling shakily, and nodded. Her whole body was bowstring tight, her skin hot, wetness beginning to soak through her lacy panties. He’d barely touched her and she felt ready to burst.

“No, sweetling, it doesn’t bother me,” he continued. “I’d wear the title as a badge of honor - if that wouldn’t defeat the purpose of being someone’s dirty little secret.” The way he repeated the last three words made them sound truly filthy and Sansa bit back a whimper.

“Then why haven’t you kissed me again?” the words escaped before she could stop them.

Petyr inhaled sharply, his expression searching. “Why do you think?” The hand cupping her jaw fell to her shoulder, one finger curling around tendrils of her hair.

She gave a little shake of her head, cheeks burning. “I don’t know… I thought it was because of all that mess with Joff, but that’s been over for ages and I’ve given you every opportunity…” Her lips pressed into a thin line in hopes of not embarrassing herself further.

The corners of Petyr’s mouth curled upward. “Sansa. My sweet little Sansa… Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He shook his head slowly, his hand sliding down her arm and tugging her hand toward his.

She obeyed his silent instruction, letting him guide her hand to his lap. There, he pressed her palm against the very prominent erection tenting his slacks that she had somehow managed not to notice until now. Sansa gasped as her fingers shaped his hard length through the fine material. Petyr’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes fluttering closed as she touched him. With a groan, he brushed her hand aside, his eyes reopening.

He searched her face. “I knew from that first moment that if I ever kissed you again, I couldn’t trust myself to stop there.”

“What if I don’t want to stop there either?” Sansa breathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm evil. But I promise the next chapter picks up exactly where we just left off. And I will post it again within the next two weeks, so, no super long wait this time!


	12. Best Left Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for Petyr's memories re: Lysa and non-con touching/sexual assault. Not very explicit but head's up that it's there.

“What if I don’t want to stop there either?” Sansa breathed.

Petyr swore under his breath and a moment later his mouth was crashing down on hers. His kiss was hard, possessing and all-consuming, exactly as she’d hoped it would be. His hands branded her as they seemed to travel everywhere at once, fire trailing in their wake. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and she parted them instantly to allow him inside. He tasted her thoroughly, fucking her mouth with his tongue in a shallow mimicry of what her body was screaming to feel.

She maneuvered herself fully onto his lap, straddling his narrow thighs. Her dripping core lowered over where he was straining against his zipper and he bucked his hips. Just that pressure on her tender flesh made her moan and she rolled her hips into his, seeking more friction. He grasped her bottom with both hands, fingertips digging in with a bruising force. The bite of pain only drove her on, her body moving almost of its own accord, needy and wanting. Petyr nibbled at her lower lip, suckling it between both of his and she hummed her approval, burying her fingers in his hair and tugging at the short strands. He made a low sound at the back of his throat and thrust harder against her. Sansa tilted her head back to take a breath and Petyr’s mouth found her throat, trailing biting kisses its length to her collarbones. Sansa breathed his name aloud and he looked at her wild-eyed before taking her mouth once more.

He rolled them over until she was on her back with him between her thighs, hot and hard and still grinding against her in that way that was already making her see stars. Every press of his cock hit her in exactly the right spot through her soaked underwear. Sansa panted and held on tight as she felt herself spiral up that peak, thighs quivering and hands grasping at the smooth fabric of his shirt. Petyr’s hand found her breast and plucked at the nipple through her bra and Sansa arched into his touch. His hand at her breast, his mouth hot against her neck, Sansa lost herself in him, in that sharp pleasure that took her over by force. She cried out her release, legs shaking and head grinding against the sofa cushions.

Petyr swallowed the sound with a deep kiss, his hips going still even as hers juddered in the aftershocks. He opened his eyes and studied her face, both of them flushed, sweaty, and panting heavily. He brushed a kiss to her damp forehead and pulled away, sitting upright, his cock still rigid, jutting out from his now rumpled trousers. He ran a hand through his mussed hair, watching her with dark, half-lidded eyes.

“That's enough for now, sweetling.”

Sansa, slightly confused and still trembling with the unexpected orgasm, fussed with her skirt and then tried to finger-comb out some of the tangles in her hair. “What's wrong?”

Petyr gave a tight smile. “Nothing with you. But it could spell the difference between a slap on the wrist and a very inconvenient, very painful jail sentence for me if we were to go any further.”

“Oh. Right.” They'd been friends so long, it was easy to forget he couldn't legally touch her for another couple weeks.

It was getting uncomfortably chilly, bereft of the warm weight of his body atop hers. She slid closer, half afraid he might pull farther away but Petyr wrapped his arm around her immediately, kissing her forehead again and tucking her against his chest. She listened to his heartbeat - still slightly accelerated from their exertions.

“I got to but you didn’t…” she said quietly, laying a hand against his erection.  

He swallowed - an action she felt more than heard. “I’m... perfectly happy with how today’s events have progressed, thank you.”

“Doesn’t seem fair, though.” She palmed the hard length, wrapping her hand around it as best she could through the fabric. It pulsed in what she fancifully took as agreement.

Petyr shifted slightly but he didn't push her hand away. “Sansa… I'm not going to come in my pants like some teenage boy.”

“Why not? I did.” She giggled, stroking him.

He exhaled loudly, his grip around her shoulders tightening. “Sansa,” he said, a note of warning in his voice.

Ignoring it, Sansa tilted up her head to kiss his neck and jaw. She swiped her tongue over his pulse point and Petyr shuddered, shunting his hips.

“Sansa…” he repeated but this time the warning had changed to pleading. Whether it was a plea for her to stop or to continue, she couldn't tell.

She increased her efforts.

Petyr swore again and she felt a rush of wet warmth against her palm, the stain quickly spreading down the front of his pants.

Sansa grinned giddily at him but found him looking less than pleased. Her brow furrowed. “I'm sorry. I know you said they were expensive but I didn't think…”

“It's not about the slacks, Sansa.” He pressed his lips together in a thin line. “I think it's time you went home.” He rose, stiff backed, and pulled her to her feet.

A sudden tightness taking over her chest, Sansa gulped air. “What?”

“Playtime is over.” He released her hand and turned away without meeting her eyes.

In all the years she'd known him, she'd never seen Petyr turn so cold, so fast. At least, not to her. Not to his Sansa. He walked to the front door without a word and she followed meekly, tears beginning to burn at the back of her eyes.

“I… I'm sorry… I don't know what I did…” she started again but Petyr silenced her with a wave of his hand.

“Nothing, sweet. It's just getting late. Best get home before your parents start calling.” He gave her a smile but as the door swung closed, she could tell it didn't reach his eyes.

***

Petyr leaned back against the door, his heart hammering hard enough to split his breastbone. He reminded himself to breathe but it didn't help. He slunk to the floor as his vision started to go spotty.

She hadn't meant it. She was so young. How could she have known? She knew nothing about that sordid night from his past. He'd never told anyone about that night. Or the morning that followed.

He'd been so drunk when Lysa came to his bed that none of it had even seemed real. At least until he woke, mouth dry and head pounding. When Lysa began to touch him again, this time he knew it was her and not Cat. But he didn't stop her. He had wanted to throw her bodily from the bed, to rail and rage and call her all manner of nasty names. Instead he lay prone, seemingly unable to move, as she coaxed him into arousal. Hating her. Hating himself.

He came in Lysa's hand before she had the chance to do anything else to him. Then he pretended to fall back asleep, tacitly willing her to give up and leave. She might have tried again if she hadn't had an acting class to get to. The moment she was gone, he started packing his bags.

He'd run from her, run from that house, run from the feelings he couldn't escape. But he couldn't stay away from Cat. He let her pull him back into that toxic circle of friends all too soon. Until the night Brandon Stark nearly killed him, Petyr had somehow believed he still had a chance.

He found out later, through the grapevine, the night he was stabbed had also been the night Lysa told Cat she was pregnant. She claimed the baby was Petyr's.

The worst part was that he’d never know if it was true. The Tully patriarch had whisked Lysa away to their family home where she later lost the baby either by design or coincidence. Something else he might never discover. Later, she’d been married off to a captain of industry in overseas film production. Despite Petyr’s lack of interest or response, she continued to send him letters (later, emails) on a monthly basis.

Lysa’s undying crush on him had even proven useful when he needed investors for his business.The woman had never chosen her friends wisely and there was more than one shady character among them. It had been a simple matter of learning a few useful secrets and Petyr had been able to create an empire. One with his name unattached to it, as far as the public knew.

Petyr’s company, started with only a small amount of his own money and generous investments of those he’d met through Lysa, had become one of the largest distributors of pornographic content worldwide. Mostly softcore and hardcore videos but with a growing selection of fetish material.

Lysa had used him once for sex. In a sense, he’d used her right back for years. It was almost poetic. If poetry could be made of such a distasteful interaction. To his day, she tried to initiate Skype sessions whenever he was visibly online. He always declined. The very sight of her username icon repulsed him

But how could Sansa even begin to suspect any of that? How could she have known when _not_ to touch him? He'd already made _touch_ so much a part of what they did together. 

Petyr sighed loudly, his head hitting the back of the door with an audible thunk. He’d finally had her exactly where he wanted her. Where’d he’d dreamt of her for months (years) now. Cradled between those pale, lean thighs as she panted with need beneath him. He'd frozen at her inexperienced touch, torn halfway between past shame and present desire. And then he'd blamed her for his own lack of control. One little moment of weakness, that hint of helplessness returning and he’d managed to fuck up the one truly good thing in his life. 

But Petyr was never one to sit idle and wallow in self pity. He just needed a plan, a way back in. So long as he hadn’t lost Sansa’s trust, or her burgeoning passion the odds were still in his favor. A young woman's fancy could be fickle but he'd been sowing the seeds of a genuine attachment for years. He would win her back to his side, where she belonged. All he had to do was get her alone, again. 

Already scheming anew, Petyr pulled himself to his feet and went to pour himself a semi-celebratory drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this got darker than I had planned for this fic but I feel like it's difficult to explore sex with Petyr without acknowledging that he does have some trauma around it. And it's very unlikely he has ever taken the time to process it. So, it would be easy for him to be triggered by anything that takes him unexpectedly out of the driver's seat. Not that Sansa could know that, as he then realizes. 
> 
> The next chapter is MUCH lighter and deals mainly with the Stark family. After that, I intend to write out Petyr's apology to Sansa. I have that sketched out but not written, yet. I was hoping to get to it this week but... it didn't happen. 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who has stuck with me and this crazy lack-of-posting-schedule! You are the absolute best and your wonderful comments always make my day!!


	13. Home Sweet Home

Sansa drove home caught halfway between anger and shame. She’d clearly done something wrong, crossed some invisible line. But Petyr had no right to shut her out like that. Not when she’d let him so far in.

God, she’d let him go so far… and she’d only wanted more.

Her cheeks burned and she cranked up the AC in her car. She was all too aware of her now-sticky underwear, clinging uncomfortably between her legs and wedged halfway up her ass. She thought about sliding a hand under her to smooth it but she knew better than to publicly pick a wedgie. No one around for miles but do _one_ embarrassing thing and paps would run out of the shadows to catch it on camera....

The light at the bottom of the hill was turning yellow up ahead and she was just far enough away that even flooring it wouldn’t get her through in time. She pressed on the brake with unnecessary force, the car behind her honking to protest the stuttering stop. Resisting the urge to flip them off, Sansa pressed one hand to her forehead, rubbing the furrow that had formed between her brows.

Fucking Petyr Baelish.

Which is what she’d thought she would be doing by now, rather than sitting in her car, outraged and confused.

Sansa exhaled, long and loud. “Fuck.” She slapped her hand against the steering wheel, punctuating each swear. “Fuck. Fucking fuck. Fuck!”

Petyr wanted her. He’d made that undeniably clear. So why did he get so weird about it? It wasn’t like she was going to tell anyone. And even if she did, she was pretty sure giving him half a hand job wasn’t about to land anyone in court. Maybe she should google that, though…

She reached for her phone but the driver behind her honked again and she realized the light was green. The sporty black car zipped around her, laying on the horn. This time she did flip them off, even as her foot found the gas pedal. Her temper flared and she considered speeding to overtake the other car but she forced herself to remember how Bran had ended up in that wheelchair in the first place.

The accident had happened when they were all very young, Bran had pulled away from Mom and run into the street. The driver was speeding and didn’t stop in time. They’d been terrified for weeks that Bran wouldn’t make it through. They’d reported the incident but no one got the tags and the driver was never found.

Sansa had always promised herself she’d be more responsible. She took a deep breath and eased up on the gas.

Tonight had just been too much. A rollercoaster she wasn’t expecting to ride. She’d felt like a passionate, seductive woman for the first time in her life. Powerful and sexy. And then Petyr had dashed it all away by chiding her like she was a spoiled child. Whatever was up Petyr’s butt, he’d better be willing to explain next time she saw him. If she even saw him before filming started up again. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to, right now. In fact, right now, all she wanted was to go home and feel like plain old Sansa Stark again.

The house was empty when she got there, a note on the table informing her that Mom and Dad had taken Rickon, Bran, and some of their friends out to the movies. Arya was at softball or something. Sansa changed into PJs raided the fridge. Nothing much left. Cat must not have gone shopping yet.

She finally settled on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It made her feel like a little kid again (this time in a good, cozy kind of way), licking the peanut butter off the knife and slicing off the crusts. To complete the effect, she mixed some chocolate syrup into milk and even found a crazy straw to stick in it. Giggling to herself, she carried her meal to the den and settled in, flipping on the TV.

Halfway into a rerun of New Girl, Arya breezed in. “Mom?”

“They’re at the movies,” Sansa informed her, eyes never leaving the screen.

“Oh. Shit.” Ayra plopped onto the couch. “I’m starving. They leave anything for dinner?” She eyed the remnants of Sansa’s sandwich.

Sansa shook her head.

Arya gave an exaggerated sigh.

Sansa turned, wrinkling her nose at the layer of dirt covering her sibling. “Your arms aren’t broken. Go make something. I did.”

Arya made a face at her. “I just ran around in the heat for like 4 hours. Can ya’ give me a break?”

A retort about it being her own damn fault for joining yet another team rose in Sansa’s throat but fell away at the plaintive look on the younger girl’s bruised face. She really did look exhausted. Sansa cleared her throat. “Tell you what, I’ll make you a PB & J if you’ll go shower off the tracks of land you brought home with you, deal?”

Arya’s face brightened. “Chocolate milk too?”

Sansa nodded. “But you gotta wash your hair and everything.”

Arya rolled her eyes but pulled herself to her feet. “You drive a hard bargain, lady.”

Sansa shrugged, biting back a smile as Arya trudged to the bathroom. It wasn’t until she heard the shower starting that she made her way to the kitchen.

When she returned, damp hair spiked into a faux-hawk, Ayra fell on the sandwich like a beast devouring prey. Sansa had to look away, tossing paper towels at her sister to clean up the inevitable aftermath.

Still chewing, Arya mumbled something.

“Hm?”

Arya swallowed audibly. “I said I saw you handed Joff his ass on Twitter. That was pretty cool.”

Sansa flushed lightly, remembering her earlier conversation with Petyr. “Oh, um. Thanks.” A moment later a thought occurred. “Wait… since when do you have a Twitter?”

Arya paused mid-bite. “I… uh, don’t?”

“Oh my God, you absolutely do.” Sansa grabbed her phone, unlocking it without looking. “What’s your handle?”

Arya’s face scrunched up. “You are _not_ going to follow me.”

“Of course not, I just wanna see what weird stuff you Tweet about.”

Arya stuffed the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and shook her head. “Oo wunt ike tt.”

Sansa grimaced. “You’re so gross. And no one can understand you with your mouth full.”

“Das da punt.” Arya smacked her lips.

“Come on…. I won’t tell Mom and Dad. You already know mine; it’s only fair.”

Arya made a sound at the back of her throat. “Everyone knows yours, though. Mine is just a joke. Gendry talked me into making one last year to troll stupid celebrities and stuff. I barely even use it anymore.”

Sansa sniffed, crossing her arms. “Fine. Whatever.” She didn’t know what she’d expected. It wasn’t like she and Arya had ever been able to bond for long over anything. They were flesh and blood but about as incompatible as two people could get.

They watched TV in a strained silence as Arya finished her chocolate milk. Sansa decided to turn in early and watch something in her room. As she rose, she tossed the remote onto the cushion next to her sister.

“G’night.” She turned away toward the stairs.

“Hey buttface,” Arya called after her.

Sansa paused at the use of the nickname Mom had tried to ban years ago. It had become almost a term of affection, by now. As close as Ayra ever came to being affectionate. “Yeah?”

“It’s thenotfamousshewolf.”

Sansa felt her mouth curve into a smile. She looked back over one shoulder. “Thanks for telling me.”

Arya’s mouth twisted. “Mom, Dad, or the boys find out and I’ll cut your hair while you sleep.”

Sansa gave an unladylike snort. “You’re awful.”

Arya just grinned in reply.

Later that night, as  Sansa was scrolling through Arya’s Twitter feed (a truly chaotic mix of gross humor, mild trolling, and bizarre factoids), a text came in. It arrived through the encrypted app she had only ever used to chat with Petyr and Margaery. She’d nearly deleted it after the Joff thing was over until Petyr had teased her about keeping it for more _adult_ purposes. She’d been half certain he was joking but decided to hold onto it anyway. Just in case he wasn’t.

          P: Can you talk?

Sansa swallowed hard, deciding if she wanted to press on the notification or not, when there was a knock at her door.

“Sans? Sweetie? You up?” The doorknob turned.

Mom. Shit.

“Yeah, I’m up,” Sansa called back, locking her phone and placing it on her dresser, face down. She paused the show she was watching as Cat came in holding a take out box.

“We stopped at that little bakery for dessert, so I thought you might like a lemon tart.”

Sansa scooted up into a sitting position. “Ooh, thanks!”

Cat took the acceptance of dessert as an invitation to stay, sitting at the foot of the bed. It rankled Sansa that her mother seemed to maintain little concept of private space but at least she came bearing a lemon tart this time. And Cat wasn’t nearly as bad as Ned _“my house, my rules”_ Stark.

Picking up the little plastic fork, Sansa did a quick calculation of how hard she’d have to work the next day at the gym to eat all of it. Especially after the sugar-filled dinner she’d had. She scooped in a small mouthful, citrus bursting and the buttery crust melting on her tongue.

Okay. Worth it.

“So, how was your day out?” Cat prompted, after a few minutes of silence. She surveyed the room for shopping bags. “Buy anything fun?”

Sansa shrugged. “We, uh, actually just hung out at her place. Painted our toenails, watched stupid movies. You know, girly stuff.”

“Right,” Cat nodded, her long pale hands fluttering restlessly without a task to occupy them. “Nail polish, makeup, and talking about boys.” She laughed. “I remember those days.”

Sansa looked away at the mention of boys. Her parents didn’t know the full story about Joff. Only Petyr and Margaery knew that. She hadn’t trusted Mom not to tell Ned and she certainly hadn’t trusted Ned not to kill the kid. Not that Joff didn’t deserve it, but Sansa wasn’t keen on landing her dad in jail over her own poor dating choices. Besides, it was just too weird to talk to her parents about dating. Ned liked to act like she was just a very tall child and Cat mainly talked about the value of _waiting until marriage_.

Yeah fucking right.

Unbidden, Sansa’s eyes flicked to her phone.

Cat caught the motion. “So… Any boys on your mind lately?” A pause. “Or girls. Talisa was telling me the kids aren’t really into labels, these days anyway.”

Sansa nearly choked on her lemon tart. “Mom…Jesus. I… I honestly can’t begin to describe how much I don’t want to be having this conversation.”

Cat sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Sans… it’s just that… we used to be so close. I feel like I barely know you, anymore. You go out so often with this Brienne and - it’s not that I don’t trust your judgement, sweetie - it’s just that we’ve never even met this girl and here you’ve spent half your time with her, this hiatus.”

Sansa lowered the take out box to her lap, a twinge of guilt running through her. “I talk to you… I talk to you like, every day. And I’m always home when I say I will be, aren’t I?”

“You are,” Cat agreed in a placating tone, hands parting defensively, palms out. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t come in here to… get on your case, as you would put it. I actually wanted to see if you would be around this week. Your father has finally decided to take a few days off -”

“Oh my God, Dad? Take time off? Did Hell freeze over?” Sansa licked the fork clean of the final lemony remnants, sighing inwardly at how quickly it had gone.

Cat chuckled, inclining her head. “I may have had some influence, there. And Doctor Pycelle's talk about high blood pressure..." Sansa's eyes went wide with concern but Cat gave a firm shake of the head. "Nothing to worry about but the Doctor has been telling him for ages that he could use a little R&R. We were talking about a family camping trip. Remember when we all went to Catalina a few years ago?”

Sansa remembered the cold, crystal blue waters and the hot pebble-covered beach quite well. She’d worn a bikini for the first time and felt very adult. Until Ayra had pointed out that her bra top had nothing to fill it, yet. The girls had spent the rest of the trip feuding, to the point where Ayra had slept outside their tent, on the dirt. Rickon had cut his palms and knees crawling out onto the rocky beach and Robb had gotten ridiculously sunburned. But there had been s’mores and shadow puppets and Ned had taught them all a silly old shanty in his booming, off-key bass. Overall, it wasn’t the worst Stark family vacation.

Sansa nodded. “Yeah, it was pretty, there.”

Cat smiled. “Robb and Talisa even said they could drive down and meet us at the ferry. I know it’s last minute but we could spend the day packing tomorrow and get an early start on Tuesday. Stay a couple days and leave before the weekend warriors pour in. What do you say?”

Sansa chewed the inside of her cheek. Three days with just the Stark family and she might go nuts. No doubt Cat would attempt a few more heartfelt conversations (that always ended up feeling more like lectures). Arya would be a brat and Sansa would feel guilty for not helping more with Bran - even though he hated being fussed over. But Talisa would be there. And she missed Robb like crazy. And it was really only two and a half days. Plus, it might keep her mind off of… other things.

“Yeah. Okay. I’m in.” She closed the styrofoam lid, decisively.

“Wonderful!” Cat stood, removing the empty take out box and kissing the top of Sansa’s head. “Let me know if you need anything. I'm going shopping tomorrow. Unless... you want to come with me? We can stop at Starbucks on the way."

Lemon tart and Starbucks? Mom only resorted to sugary bribes when she was desperate. Sansa felt another stab of shame. She _had_ been ignoring her mother quite a lot, this hiatus. It was easier than talking to her but that didn't make it right. "I'm gonna go for a run in the morning but maybe we could go a little later in the day? 

Cat's whole face lit up with a warm look of affection. "I think that can be arranged."

Sansa nodded, shifting slightly against her pillows as silence fell between them. 

At last, Cat gestured toward the TV. "Well... I’ll let you get back to your show.”

“Thanks, Mom. And, uh, thanks for the tart. It was yum.”

Cat stopped at the doorway. “Glad you enjoyed it. Don’t stay up too late?”

“I won’t.”

Cat lingered a moment longer, the styrofoam box creaking in her hands. “Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you too.”

Sansa pressed play on the TV as the door closed. She watched until her eyes began to droop then brushed her teeth and tucked herself back into bed. All the while the unanswered text on her phone lay forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Stark family love, as has been requested in previous comments :-)
> 
> The usual apologies for delayed posting. I'm really a slave to the muse. BUT the next chapter is finished, too. I'll post that next week. Also, it's smutty. So I hope that will at least partially compensate!


	14. Aural Pleasure

Four days.

Fours days, two texts, and a one phone call made in a moment of panicked, slightly inebriated desperation (that he instantly regretted).

He’d sent one text the night it happened, not really expecting a reply. Just wanting her to know she was still on his mind, setting himself up for the inevitable moment of apology. When it went unanswered, he’d shrugged it off. Given her time.

Only impetuous boys pressed a young woman too hard, too fast. Petyr was patient to a fault. Perhaps a little too good at waiting by now, but that was what came of a life placed constantly on hold. Waiting for Cat to turn around and notice him, stalwart by her side. Waiting for her to see what a poor choice she’d made in Brandon. In Ned. Waiting for Sansa to grow fond of him. For Cat to see what could have been.

Then making new plans as his affections began to shift, placing him in yet another holding pattern.  

A couple years ago, he’d looked ahead in his calendar to the exact day she’d turn eighteen. He ought to feel ashamed of that. Guilty. Perverse. Something besides just impatient.

But Petyr Baelish always did enjoy defying expectations.

It was out of necessity that he had also become such an expert at compartmentalizing. He wasn’t the type to sit by the phone, checking every few minutes to see if she’d texted back. He had sides to read, emails to check, offers to consider. His adult business, alone, took up several hours each day. Those little starlets didn’t always know how to promote themselves.

Despite his loathing for social media and its intrusive nature, it had been a boon to his side business. He’d become a dab hand at creating an image for any promising new girl. He could make a star in an afternoon. They never lasted long, of course, once the bloom was off the rose. Viewers had notoriously short attention spans.

Petyr had just finished crafting a platform for a slim brunette named Amber (of course) who advertised herself as Barely Legal (she wasn’t) when his phone buzzed. With an eagerness he would later find embarrassing, he yanked it from his pocket.

With a dull disappointment, he registered Tyrion’s name in the caller ID. He let it go to voicemail.

Four fucking days.

He’d known Sansa could be stubborn but this…. They hadn’t gone four days without exchanging a single word like this since…

_Since she was seeing Joffrey._ A nasty little voice in his mind supplied the unwanted thought for the twentieth time that day.

His teeth grit as his gaze slid to the unlocked liquor cabinet. Oh no, he would not make the same mistake twice. One too many drinks and his thumb hovering over the call button seemed to descend on its own. Luckily, he’d hung up before leaving some horrifically sloppy voicemail and dragged himself away to bed.

Anyway, he knew in his rational mind that it was utterly ridiculous to think that his little lover had already secured herself some strapping new beau.

She was probably just nursing a bruised ego, letting him stew. She was probably enjoying the thought of it right now, picturing him twisting in the wind. It was almost disappointing. He’d only ever encouraged the most clever brutality in her, honing her defenses to a razor-sharp edge. The silent treatment seemed too easy. Beneath her. And yet here it was, working all the same.

He was a doomed man with such weakness for a firebrand

The phone let him know that Tyrion had left a voicemail. Heaving a dramatic sigh, Petyr pulled up the voicemail and hit play.

_“Hey, remember that ‘family photo’ promo idea for next season that you and Jon both hated? Well, the execs creamed their pants over it so my esteemed Father said it’s a go. Not optional. Looks like they want to set it up for next week. My assistant will be emailing the details later but I wanted to tell myself so you wouldn’t try and pull some sneaky shit to get out of it. We are not photoshopping you in, again. Period. Don’t call me unless you break something important. And even then, why the hell would you call me? Go to a hospital or something.”_

From the slur in Tyrion’s voice, he’d tied on quite a few before calling. Not uncommon for the small man, especially since his messy breakup with Shae. Petyr glared at his phone for a moment, deleting the rambling voicemail with a forceful jab of his thumb.

The promo idea had been pitched at the end of last season and in a rare moment of unity, Petyr and Jon had both expressed an equal amount of distaste. It was cliche and far too saccharine even for _Where the Heart Is_. Maybe back in season one, they’d have been more willingly subjected to the indignity but here they were heading into season 5 and each of them stars in their own right.

Petyr debated reaching out to Jon to discuss a way to stage a protest. Surely the writers couldn’t afford to lose both of them in one season. Tommen and Sansa couldn’t carry the show alone.

...Sansa.

Oh, but of fucking course! If the shoot was mandatory, there’d be no way for her to avoid him completely. Getting her alone long enough to apologize might prove tricky but he supposed it was better than nothing. His mouth twisted in distaste. He hated leaving things up to chance.

A notification popped up on his phone. Sansa had just posted a series of photos to her Instagram. Mostly landscapes of a beach, stretches of aquamarine water, a few action shots of the Stark family playing what looked like a modified game of volleyball, Sansa’s feet on the pebbled sand - the orange polish badly chipped. He scrolled quickly through them, skimming the hashtags.

#beachbum #familyvacay #omgthiswateriscold #needapedistat #calilife #glamping

Well, that explained the lack of response. From the looks of it, she’d been well out of cell phone range for the last couple of days. Petyr found himself stupidly relieved that she hadn’t just been ignoring him. As he was closing the app, a text came in. Then another.

        Sansa: hey  
        Sansa: saw u called. sry been been out of town w the fam

He hesitated over his reply before settling on something simple.

        Petyr: I saw the Instagram posts. Looks like a beautiful trip. Catalina?

Three grey dots appeared and pulsed for a few seconds before disappearing. They appeared again.

        Sansa: yeah  
        Sansa: really pretty there. cold at nite tho

No more grey dots, just silence. She was waiting for him to make the next move. They’d gone past the point of no return and there was no merit in him trying to play it cool, anymore. He took a deep breath and pulled up the encrypted message app to send his response. He was very glad she’d held onto that app - he tried his best never to put anything incriminating in writing.

        P: It’s a shame no one was there to keep you warm.

Seconds ticked by far too slowly until the app indicated she was typing back.

        S: how do you know there wasn’t

        P: I’m wounded, love.

        S: yeah that seems to be going around

        P: Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?

        S: hold on

A couple minutes went by and Petyr frowned, hoping she wasn’t freezing him out already. He’d acted a bit like a dick after their previous interlude - granted, but surely her temper couldn’t… Oh. She was calling him.

“Sansa?”

“No, Ned Stark stole her phone and decided to see if you were up for a bit of late night chit-chat. Real cozy-like, as they say.” She spoke in a low voice with a mild drawl that sounded very little like her father, breaking off at the end with a giggle.

“You’re hilarious, sweetling,” he deadpanned, his spine finally releasing the rigid tension it had been carrying since her first text.

“I am,” she agreed. “You just don’t appreciate my talent for impressions”

“I always appreciate all your ample talents,” he defended, tongue firmly in his cheek.

“Was that a pun about my breasts?”

A snort of amusement. He leaned his elbow on his desk, free hand fiddling with a pen. “Would you like it to be?”

A pause. “Yes. If only for the word ‘ample’,”

He chuckled. “You’re in fine spirits tonight. Been sampling your parents’ liquor cabinet?”

She made a dismissive noise. “Maybe I’m just happy to talk to you.”

He closed his eyes, letting her hear the smile in his voice. “Are you?”

“Did you miss talking to me?”

“Very much,” he admitted.

“Good.” A rustling sound, something like fabric shifting and the springs of a bed creaking. “So, about that apology.”

He said nothing, letting her take the lead, her breathing soft and steady in his ear.

“Petyr?”

“I’m here.”

“I, uh, I was thinking… I know you said we can’t… until I’m 18. And I still think you’re being ridiculous but whatever. I guess I can wait but…” she made a indistinct sound at the back of her throat. “Oh shit, nevermind. It’s stupid.”

Petyr swallowed, shifting in his seat. “What is it, sweetling?”

“It’s really dumb.”

“I’m sure it’s not,” he assured her, embarrassingly eager to take on whatever display of affection she was readying to request. He wondered if she was building up the tension for just that purpose. Sometimes he managed to forget that he was supposed to be the one manipulating her, not the other way around. He reminded himself that his clever little darling was just living up to the mould he’d made for her. Knowing how to make him work for it was proof that she was a good student. And maybe a touch of Margaery’s influence.

“Tell me... tell me what else you _want_ to do to me,” her voice was soft and a little breathless, the words spilling over one another.

He bit back a swear, the pen falling from his fingers. Okay, she’d managed to catch him off-guard but he was more than happy to comply. “Oh, sweetling, how long have you got?”

“I think that will depend on how detailed you can get,” she giggled again, the sound deeper, more throaty than before. If there’d been any doubt about the dangerously alluring woman she was becoming, it was surely gone by now.

He licked his lips wondering where to begin. He began with the most obvious. “I want to kiss you, again. I always want to kiss you. Those pretty pink lips of yours are always calling to be kissed. Sometimes softly, sometimes hard and with purpose.” He hesitated, closing his eyes and letting the fantasy build in his mind. “I want to undress you, slowly revealing you one precious porcelain inch at a time. I want to run my hands over every plane and every curve, your calves and the soles of your feet to your sweet flat little tummy, your perfect ass, and those delightfully _ample_ breasts.”

Sansa gave an appreciative hum of amusement. “I’d like that…”

“Good. Because I want _so_ much more, my sweet. I want to feel you quiver and squirm with anticipation as I take my time. I want to kiss your neck and jaw, your collarbones, and then each of your perky nipples, tasting and teasing them until you beg me for more. ” He took a shaky breath, his pants growing uncomfortably tight.

Sansa swallowed audibly at the other end of the line. “Go on.”

He palmed himself through his straining fly. “I want to lick and kiss and nibble my way down your body, learn all the little places that make you pant and moan. I want to taste you, bury my face between your legs, lick you into a frenzy and feel you pull my hair as you ride my tongue.”

She breathed heavily into the phone, a little whimper escaping.

Petyr unzipped and took himself in hand, pressure building so fast it was almost painful. “I want to make you come again and again, see you spread open and flushed and moaning my name. I want to feel your hands on me, on my cock.” Eyes closed tight, listening to her rapid exhales, he fisted his erection, pumping hard as his voice grew rough. “Sansa, I want you so badly. I want to...God, Sansa, I want to lay you down and fuck you until you can’t see straight. Until no other man will do. I want to feel you, wet and needy and coming with me deep inside you… Fuck!” He groaned as his orgasm overtook him. Sansa made another high-pitched noise he hoped signaled her own completion.

There was silence on the line for several moments.

“Sansa?”

“Mmm?” She was nearly purring and he felt a jolt of purely masculine satisfaction at having reduced her to monosyllabic noises with just the force of his words.  

“Is... that what you had in mind?”

“Mmmm. Mm-hmmm,” she sighed contentedly. “Good night, Petyr.”

“Good night, sweetling.”

They hung up and Petyr went to look for a towel, no longer feeling any concern for ground he might have lost with a moment of coldness. He found himself whistling as he cleaned up and suddenly realized he was even looking forward to that godawful photoshoot, next week.

Because, if nothing else, she would be there.  



End file.
